The Crittendon Chronicles
by Sgt. Moffitt
Summary: The bumbling Brit tells his story...
1. A Colonel is born

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

So how did such an apparent nincompoop as Rodney Crittendon end up as a career officer? Fans of P.G. Wodehouse and Gilbert and Sullivan will understand...

* * *

Last night I dreamt I went to Stalag 13 again.

The medical chaps say that the unconscious mind never forgets. And Stalag 13 was not a place one readily forgets in any case, even when one's role at the camp had been less than heroic, as mine was. Alas, I am unhappily aware that I am not the stuff of which heroes are made. But how I wish I were!

And though I performed my duties today with my customary good humor, the memories weighed on my mind. So much so that when the day's work was done, and the children put to bed, Emily sat me down and enquired what had caused the disturbance of my peace of mind.

To be more precise, what she said was, "What's eating you, Rodney?"

I suppose the wives of former prisoners of war must deal with the memories, don't you know. So I tried to tell her, but in truth, I found it difficult to put into words. I had been an unwilling lodger of the Jerries in several different prison camps, and each one had left its mark on me.

But of course, the memories that troubled me the most were of my rather odd experiences at jolly old Stalag 13.

I admitted as much to Emily, and she nodded.

"I thought so. It's time you got that out of your system, you know."

I sighed. "How does one do that?"

She thought for a moment, and then snapped her fingers. "I've got it! You should write your memoirs, Rodney."

"My memoirs!" I was a bit startled. "Who would care to read anything about _me?"_

"Probably no one," my wife admitted. "But in justice to yourself, I think you should write them anyway."

"You do?"

She responded with a firm nod. (Emily is a very decisive person.) "Yes, I do. I've heard all the stories, and I think it's time you told your side of it."

Well, I am a very modest chap and not one to blow my own horn, after all, and I told her so.

"Yes, I know," she said. "All the more reason for you to speak up now."

I was willing to take her word for it, but I had some doubt in my ability to do the thing. "But I say, Emily! I hardly know where to start."

"Why not start at the very beginning?"

"What? You mean, I should start off with 'I am born' or some such rot, like that Thackeray fellow wrote?"

"I think that was Dickens_, _Rodney dear."

"Eh? Oh, yes; yes, of course. But, Emily..."

She handed me a fountain pen and a pad of paper. A steely glint was in her eye, so I meekly took the items and sat down at my desk.

* * *

_A Soldier's Tale: Memories of a Life Behind Barbed Wire_

_by Rodney Wooster Stanley Crittendon_

I was born in Cornwall in 1905, in a little town called Penzance; perhaps you've heard of it? I expect one could say I am the typical product of a typical British upbringing. We had a very proper British nanny, of course. And many a jolly holiday we had while she was with us...but eventually I went away to school, of course, as boys do.

I attended Brookfield School during my formative years, and a jolly good experience that was, too. My cousin Bertie attended Malvern, and my elder brother Nigel attended Harrow, and I'm afraid they poked a bit of fun at old Brookfield, but it suited me.

Yes, it was a second-rate school and all that, but when one is blessed with a second- or third-rate intellect such as mine, one can hardly be expected to attend Eton, can one? At any rate, as our Latin master Mr Chipping pointed out, even fellows such as myself can contribute in some small way to the glory of England.

Ah, yes, old Chips was a turn in himself, he was. He had retired, but the onset of the Great War brought him back into action at Brookfield, and a whole new generation of boys learned Latin from him. I can still recall him standing in the chapel at Vespers, reading out the list of former Brookfield boys lost in combat each day...the flower of England, those who had given their all in the line of duty...

Duty! It has ever been the guiding light in my life. And of course, Nigel and Kay and I first learned our notions of duty at Grandfather Frederic's knee. Grandfather was a perfect slave to duty, and I resolved to adopt his creed as my own. I would always do my duty, I told myself, no matter how difficult or incomprehensible the task.

And so, at the suitable time, I went on to Cranwell. And why did I end up at the Royal Air Force College, you may ask? I had no choice, you see: the military was in my blood, by Jove!

Great-uncle Sir Joseph would of course have preferred that I attend the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, but aside from the fact that I always get beastly sick whenever I venture out on the briny deep, I didn't fancy following in his footsteps. Even though he had been the First Lord of the Admiralty, I always had the feeling that the old fellow was a bit queer in his attic, don't you know.

And the fact that Grandfather Frederic's nephew and namesake had been lookout on the _Titanic_ further discouraged me from a naval career.

My great-grandfather had been a Major-General in the Army, and he would no doubt have preferred that I secure a place at Sandhurst, as Nigel did. I think the old fellow always regretted his own lack of military knowledge, although he was very sound in almost every other subject, of course, very sound indeed. The very model of modern thinking, my great-grandfather. He had always held that the members of his family were to have the best possible education, believing it would compensate for the rather appalling lack of common sense which is our most distinguishing characteristic.

But I had become enthralled with the exploits of the chaps in the flying machines, and so I applied for admission to the Royal Air Force College. Eventually, to the absolute astonishment of all of my instructors there, I emerged with the rank of Flying Officer. To be sure, though, not all Flying Officers actually _fly_...

Shortly after I received my commission, my cousin Bertie came to visit me, full of news.

"What ho, Roddy, old chap! The most peculiar thing..."

He went on to tell me that he had engaged a new valet. A most superior fellow, he assured me. Intelligent, and all that; had extricated poor Bertie from any number of scrapes, up to and including engagements to unsuitable young ladies.

I listened with keen attention. If anyone was lacking in the old gray matter more than I, it was my cousin Bertie. And if he had discovered a way to make up for that lack, well, jolly good for him! I was a bit envious, in fact.

Bertie noticed my expression of envy, and smiled and slapped me on the back. "No need to look so down in the mouth, old fellow. You haven't engaged a bâtman yet, have you? No? Well then, my man Jeeves just happens to have a nephew who is serving in the ranks in the Royal Air Force, and who is looking for just such a post. I promise you, you won't be disappointed."

And I wasn't. Young Fleming was respectful, kept my gear in good order, had the most remarkable ideas, and (after I acted rather rashly on those remarkable ideas) the most extraordinary talent for getting me out of trouble and keeping me in the good graces of my commanding officers. We went off to India, and before I knew it I had progressed to Wing Commander, and by 1929 I was Group Captain.

And I had never yet learned to fly! I remember something Great-uncle Sir Joseph once said: "Stick close to your desk, and never go to sea, and you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navy!" In my case, stick close to my desk, and never take flight, and I might end up Marshal of the Air Force. Of course, that didn't quite occur in my case. But beyond all reasonable expectation, I became a Group Captain, and a Group Captain I remained, even as my brother Nigel became a Colonel in the Regular Army.

But then the bally Jerries invaded Poland. We did our best, but the British Expeditionary Force was driven from France, and we were truly in the soup. And I hadn't a prayer of concealing my incompetence in the current situation...especially after young Fleming was scooped up for some rather hush-hush work with the Home Office, and I was recalled to dear old England.

I was still tied to a desk, but fortunately, I had a bit of a knack for bolstering the morale of our brave lads who were fighting the Battle of Britain.

Perhaps you've heard of the Crittendon Plan? Well, the particular portion of the scheme involving geraniums didn't fly, if you'll pardon the expression, but I did manage to improve living conditions on the base for the poor chaps, as best I could. I always held that a well-fed and well-rested pilot was much better prepared to do battle with the enemy.

Odd, isn't it, that no one seems to remember _that_ part of the Plan.

But, in the words of our good King George VI, "Keep calm and carry on." And so I did.

Later I was transferred to the Bomber Command, but it was deucedly frustrating sitting at my desk, knowing full well that other chaps were out there fighting and dying. And there I was, in charge of all those young fellows who risked their lives every night on bomb runs over Germany. I determined that I should learn what they were doing, and so I appointed myself observer on a mission over the Ruhr area.

Frightfully bad luck that we should get shot down, of course. And when that beastly rude Gestapo squad picked me up, I was firm in my conviction that they would get nothing out of me.

Actually, I suppose it was rather fortunate that I knew nothing of importance in any case. And so during my interrogation at Dulag Luft, I concentrated on setting the fellow straight on my rank.

"Group Captain Rodney Crittendon, His Majesty's Royal Air Force," I said.

"Captain? You are a _Hauptmann? _A _Kapitan?_" he said.

"No, no, not a captain. Group Captain," I said.

He eyed me with suspicion. "You are not a captain. You are an _Oberst_ - Colonel," he said, pointing to the insignia on my tunic.

"No, no, no, man! Pay attention, if you please," I said, getting a trifle hot under the collar. "Not a captain. Not a colonel. _Group Captain."_

"Colonel," he said.

"Dash it all!" I said, and that was the end of it. As far as the ruddy Jerries were concerned, for the duration of my stay in Germany I would remain a Colonel.

...

Of course, my experience in Stalag 18 was enlightening, to be sure. The camp was stuffed with all sorts of officers, and most of them jolly good ones too. I can tell you I kept my eyes and ears open! One must always be open to learning from one's fellows.

The Escape Committee at Stalag 18 was very busy, and although I volunteered my services at once, for some reason Air Commodore Thistlethwaite wasn't at all keen to put me to use.

Odd thing, that.

I did ask him how they expected to escape the Jerries without proper identification and money and whatnot. I was assured that these things would all come to pass in due time, and that when the escape plan was put into execution, it would be done on a grand scale. Thistlethwaite had a theory behind all this, and I must say it was a regular pip of an idea.

"We might not make it home, Crittendon," he told me. "But we can tie up as many Jerries as we can while we're on the loose. Every one of them running around looking for us here is one less gunning for our lads in North Africa and bombing our families back home."

Well, I say, the chap was a ruddy genius! So I suggested that perhaps some rather incompetent fellow could attempt a few futile escapes in the meantime, to divert attention from the mass escape he had planned.

The Air Commodore eyed me rather sceptically, and then he smiled. "Feel free, old boy. But try not to get hurt, will you?"

...

And that's how I came to be rather famous at old Stalag 18, don't you know. Eleven escape attempts I had in all, twelve if one counts the time I hid myself in one of the supply lorries about to leave camp.

I suspect that the Jerries were having a bit of fun with me after awhile, allowing me to go a little farther each time before I was recaptured. It occurred to me that perhaps they considered me to be rather mentally negligible, which, according to my cousin Bertie, is the opinion his man Jeeves has of him. That sort of thing runs in families, don't you know.

However, as I say, I am not one to shirk my duty, and anything for King and country, what?

So it was strange, indeed, when Air Commodore Thistlethwaite summoned me to his quarters one day. I gave him a brisk salute, and he told me to stand at ease. Then he informed me that I was to be transferred to a different stalag.

Well, I must say that was a bit of a facer, don't you know. I had been doing my bit at Stalag 18, helping the lads along with their grand scheme. Whatever would they do without me?

But Thistlethwaite assured me that I could find a way to be of use at my new stalag as well. In fact, I was to be the Senior POW Officer at Stalag 13!

My duty was clear. I would assume command of the prisoners at this stalag, do my utmost to bolster their morale, and see to it that the lads worked hard at the only duty of a POW...escaping to rejoin one's own national forces.

* * *

Emily put down the manuscript and gave me the look that makes strong men tremble.

"Really, Rodney - you aren't giving yourself enough credit! In fact, people are going to think you're an absolute idiot."

I was a trifle put out. "Not at all, my dear girl! I merely set down the facts as they occurred. 'Tisn't for me to judge how my actions might appear to the uninitiated."

"Hmm." Emily tapped the manuscript with her fingertips. "Okay, let's see how you do with the story of your arrival at Stalag 13."

"But..."

"No buts." She handed me the fountain pen. "Write."


	2. Senior POW Officer at Stalag 13

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

Crittendon's version of "The Flight of the Valkyrie". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

* * *

The lads in my barracks watched as I packed up my few belongings for the trip to Stalag 13.

"I don't understand, sir," complained Gower. "Why must you go to some other camp? Did they think perhaps that things were too pleasant for you here?"

The assembled group snickered a bit at that, and I smiled wryly. As I folded my one and only spare shirt, I replied, "It's my understanding that Stalag 13 is a camp solely for noncommissioned officers, unlike this one, and Kommandant Klink has requested that an officer be sent there to be in charge of the prisoners. You behold in me the lucky chap chosen for the job!"

Wainwright nodded. "And I'll bet Kommandant Schubert will be glad to get rid of you! On account of all of your escape attempts, I mean," he added hastily. "Begging your pardon, sir."

No doubt this was true, and Schubert could hardly be blamed for his decision to rid himself of me, but I had to put a brave face on it, don't you know. Fortunes of war and all that. "Be that as it may, Wainwright, I shall do my duty, no matter where I am stationed."

"Yes, sir. We'll miss you, sir."

I was touched. "Thank you, Wainwright." I looked round at all the lads. "Look after each other, won't you? Britain will need us when this ruddy war ends!"

"Yes, sir!" they chorused, saluting as one, and I returned the salute...with tears in my eyes, by Jove!

But I was determined to do my duty, and as I left Stalag 18, I wondered what the future would bring at my new post.

...

On my arrival at Stalag 13, I was hurried into the Kommandantur without ceremony; I hadn't even a chance to glimpse my new surroundings. In the Kommandant's office, I was greeted by a bald Johnnie with a monocle. He introduced himself as Colonel Klink, and informed me that I had been brought to the toughest POW camp in all of Germany.

"But enough of that; I really have no need to brag," he said. "Colonel Crittendon, I had you sent here to become our new Senior POW Officer."

"Yes, sir," I responded, wincing a bit at being referred to as "Colonel" yet again.

Klink smiled the sort of smile that one customarily associates with self-satisfied cats and the untimely demise of canaries. "And one of the prisoners under your command will be the _previous_ Senior POW Officer, Colonel Robert Hogan of the United States Army Air Corps."

Well, I say! This was not at all the scenario I had envisaged, don't you know. I hadn't thought to be usurping the position of some other poor fellow. A deucedly awkward situation indeed, and one which would require all of the tact for which I am renowned. So I said merely, "Very good, sir."

Klink went on, "Since you are both colonels..."

I murmured, "I am actually a Group Captain, Colonel Klink," but he paid no heed.

"I have taken care to assure myself that you are Hogan's senior by date of rank," he said. "I'll introduce you to him presently, but in the meantime, I shall be pleased to have you join me for dinner."

Considerably puzzled by the entire situation, I assented, and the Kommandant escorted me to his quarters. Over dinner Colonel Klink regaled me with tales of his exploits during the Great War and I did my best not to yawn. Then he excused himself and I was left cooling my heels to await further developments.

It had been a very long day, and I was wanting to rest my weary head somewhere...anywhere...when, at around nine o'clock, a pleasant young fellow (pleasant for a Jerry, that is) by the name of Corporal Langenscheidt ushered me into the presence.

I marched into the Kommandant's office and offered my best salute to Colonel Klink. "Colonel Crittendon reporting to Camp Kommandant, as requested."

Klink turned to the other occupant of the room. "Colonel Hogan, may I present Colonel Crittendon, of the Royal Air Force?"

Colonel Hogan was a darkish sort of chap who wore his rumpled cap pushed to the back of his head, no tie, casual to the extreme, I must say. It would appear I had my work cut out for me, indeed. I reached out to shake his hand. "How do you do, Hogan?"

"Just shot down?" he enquired.

"Months ago," I admitted. "Been at Stalag 18."

Hogan turned to Colonel Klink with a distinctly peeved look on his face. "You had him _transferred?"_

Klink responded with an odiously superior smile. "What is your exact date of rank, Colonel Hogan?"

The Yank cast a critical glance over me, and then glared at the Kommandant. "You know my date of rank. I guess he has about ten years on me."

"Twelve, actually," I said. I saw no need to go into detail about why I had languished in rank for all those years; no doubt all would become clear once he had been acquainted with me for a time. But I was a trifle annoyed that Hogan had assumed I was so much older than he; I found out later that only a year separated us in age.

Hogan was still glaring at Colonel Klink. "That makes _him _Senior Prisoner of War Officer. Nice going, Klink." He looked at me and said grudgingly, "No offence to you, Crittendon."

I gave Hogan a kindly smile, and assured him that no offence was taken. I told him that I would take over from him the following morning, right after calisthenics. He informed me that they didn't do calisthenics, neither did they parade.

Shocking! The poor devils here were obviously in a depressed state under the Jerries' malevolent rule. "Well, well. Quite a bit of shaking up to do, what?" I turned to Colonel Klink and saluted. "Kommandant."

...

I confess I was a bit concerned over the lack of military discipline at Stalag 13. I had observed at Stalag 18 how important it was to keep up pride in one's appearance, and to maintain the reassuring routine that gives one a sense of purpose in life. Too often the chaps who felt that life no longer held anything worthwhile just gave up and turned their faces to the wall...and too often those chaps died. That wouldn't happen at Stalag 13, not under my command!

The next morning I held calisthenics by myself in the compound, setting the proper example for the other men in this benighted camp. I then reported as promised to Colonel Hogan in his quarters. I opened the door to find him and four rather disreputable POWs inside.

"Morning, chaps!" I said with bright good cheer.

Hogan proceeded to introduce me to his staff, but I interrupted him hastily. After taking over Hogan's role at camp, I certainly wasn't going to deprive him of his staff as well, not for the world! Wouldn't be cricket, you know. "No need for that, old boy. Nothing against these fellows at all, but of course I'll choose my own."

We exchanged a few pleasantries over the dusty condition of the bench that served as a desk, and then I briskly brought Hogan and his men up to date on the observations I had made of the camp. My particular concern was that there had never been an escape from Stalag 13.

To my mind the act of escaping, however desirable it might be, was not nearly as important as the survival of the men under my command. And the best way to ensure this, I felt, was to maintain morale by occupying them with a task that kept them focused on the future. Just preparing for an escape would answer nicely, even if the escape never came off; I was rather surprised that this had not occurred to Hogan already.

I had just told Hogan and his men about my own numerous escape attempts, and I was about to explain why I had engaged in these, when Hogan interrupted me.

"Colonel," he said, "our operation here is not what you're quite used to."

"Definitely, old boy!" I replied absently, and I launched into my plans for digging an escape tunnel. Hogan's men looked a bit perplexed and not at all enthusiastic about the project...no doubt thoroughly demoralised, poor lads!

Hogan once again interrupted my discourse. "Colonel, before you begin, let me put a hypothetical case to you."

Always the soul of courtesy, I replied, "Yes, of course, old boy."

"Suppose you were in a camp that specialised in helping other people out of Germany."

"Other people? What other people?" It seemed rather an odd question, don't you know: at Stalag 18 it was understood that many of the prisoners sought to aid the escape of their comrades without intending to escape themselves. My own modest efforts at ineffectual escape attempts were a case in point.

Hogan replied, "Suppose a German, who had lots of information about the German High Command."

I blinked; definitely not the answer I had expected. "But that would be _spying."_

"You could say that, yes."

I shook my head; my duty was quite clear on this point, don't you know. Thistlethwaite had drummed the Articles of the Geneva Convention into our heads, and honourable soldier that I am, I could contemplate only one course of action. I said firmly, "In that case, which would be definitely bad form for prisoners of war, I would hand over any information I had to the German camp commander."

As it turned out, Hogan was only making an idle comment...or so I thought at the time. So I dismissed the matter and selected two of Hogan's men to start digging the first tunnel. I would involve more of the lads as time went by, I told myself, but these two would do to start with.

...

My experiences in assisting with tunnel construction at jolly old Stalag 18 stood me in good stead as I taught Newkirk and Carter how to make headlamps from milk tins from their Red Cross packages, how to brace the walls and ceiling of the tunnel to prevent collapse, and the different techniques of disposing of the dirt excavated. I also gave them a brief lecture on proper ventilation and I was pleased that the two of them absorbed the information so readily.

We set to work, and were making exceedingly good progress, I thought; those lads tunneled as though they had learned the skill from the cradle. And then it happened! I had just broken through to an open space underground when something struck the back of my head, and I knew no more.

I woke to find myself in the barracks, with Carter and Newkirk washing the dirt from my face and my hands. Groggily I allowed them to assist me to change from the overalls I had worn for digging into my customary uniform.

Newkirk shook his head as he eased my arms into my uniform tunic, as deftly as if he had valeted for years. "Close thing, that! We were lucky to get you out, sir."

"Boy, that was scary!" Carter agreed, as he placed the tie round my neck and knotted it. "The whole tunnel went KA-BOOM!"

I could only nod weakly as they helped me to my feet and outside into the fresh air. Newkirk sat me down on a bench and the two of them set to work binding up my throbbing head. I winced and closed my eyes.

"Well, how are we feeling? Better?"

I opened my eyes to see Colonel Hogan standing there. Aside from the throbbing of the old brain-box, I was fit enough, except I was troubled by the fact I could remember nothing of what had occurred. Except for a deucedly odd flicker of memory which I was reluctant to divulge to Hogan...but the fellow had a talent for eliciting information from reluctant subjects, even from one as reticent as myself.

And when I confided to him my vision of a girl and an aeroplane underground, he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. "Delusions? I've heard of that in cave-ins."

Well, that was somewhat reassuring, don't you know, but the total loss of the tunnel meant only one thing. My plans for keeping the men of my command occupied in a praiseworthy endeavour were dashed. And then, as I gazed at the trees beyond the barbed wire, it struck me.

Perhaps this was the time I should actually make a successful escape!

Looking back on it now, I cannot conceive how I thought such a thing was possible. Without maps, compass, food, identity papers? My only excuse is that I must have been suffering from concussion after my unfortunate experience in the cave-in.

Nevertheless, I got to my feet and insisted to Hogan that I had a duty to escape. I even pointed out to him the proximity of the woods outside the camp, and suggested that we could cut the wire and make a run for it...if someone provided a suitable diversion.

Really, the chap was remarkably obtuse, even for a Yank; I had to lay out the whole plan for him in the end. But we finally agreed that young Carter and Newkirk would make the escape with me, while Hogan and his men provided a diversion at the other end of the camp by playing _Die Walk__ü__re_ on their Red Cross instruments, with kettledrums being the dominant feature of the ensemble. (Wagner would undoubtedly have objected to the proposed unconventional orchestration of his work, but fortunately the fellow had been dead for years.)

Hogan suggested that a tent should be set up for this purpose; I agreed, and went to speak to the Kommandant about it at once.

...

Mission accomplished, I headed back to my quarters in Barracks 2. I had insisted Hogan share the room with me rather than displace the poor chap, but I suppose one should take the idiosyncrasies of one's roommate into account before one makes such a rash offer: I hadn't realised that I would be sharing quarters with a set of kettledrums as well as Colonel Hogan. Still, since presumably he was preparing for the next day's diversion I could scarcely object...although the racket I was subjected to as I approached the barracks did not sound at all like _Die Walk__ü__re_.

But the infernal noise as I came into the room was the least of my worries. There was another occupant of the room, and although Hogan assured me this person was a Corporal Franston and wholly to be trusted, it wasn't long before my keen powers of observation revealed that the person was, in fact, a female. And a German female, at that.

I looked at Hogan in outraged astonishment, and then strode over to the odd corporal and snatched off his...her...cap. "What in _blazes_ is a woman doing here?"

The lady gave me an icy glance. "Baroness Lili von Schlichter."

My mind flashed back to Hogan's off-hand remark about assisting a German to escape the country, and I could feel my beastly headache returning. Even we in Stalag 18 had heard about the escape of the Baroness, and the search for her! "Hogan, don't you realise who this woman is? Don't you know we could all be shot if we were even found with her?"

Hogan pooh-poohed that, but I was adamant that we must adhere to the rules of war, and unfortunately that meant we were obligated to turn the lady in.

But the Baroness was more than a match for me, by Jove! She stepped up to me and looked me in the eye.

"I do not speak to you as a woman, but one who is fighting for the same cause. A traitor, if you will, who is fighting for honour to return to her country." She paused, and then said, "If you wish to turn me in, I am ready."

I looked at Hogan, and had to look away from the accusation in his eyes.

Duty! I knew my duty as the Senior POW Officer. But it would seem perhaps that I had a higher duty to honour.

"Twenty-four hours," I said. "No more."

"Just about right," Hogan said, and the Baroness smiled.

...

The next day, all the plans were set for the escape of Newkirk, Carter, and myself. The lads were in remarkably good spirits, the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and we were somehow equipped with wire-cutters. Newkirk was very vague indeed about how he had managed to procure them, but no matter.

The tent that Klink had approved for the orchestra rehearsal was set up, and the strains of _Die Walk__ü__re _wafted throughout the compound. Although curiously enough nary a kettledrum could be heard...odd thing, that.

Meanwhile, the lads and I were at the west fence, and escape was at hand. But I lifted my head as I noticed a sudden silence.

"Where's the blasted music?" I demanded.

"They're letting the drums cool down, I wouldn't wonder, Colonel," said Newkirk.

And at that moment the music resumed, and I gave a sigh of relief. "Now, you chaps start cutting away here, and I'll go on down there and start cutting." I disentangled myself from the barbed wire where it had ensnared my tunic and headed down the fence.

Twenty yards down the fence, I applied the wirecutters, and with a mighty effort, snapped through the wire. Imagine my consternation when the entire section of fence fell down! Rather a poor example of Teutonic craftsmanship, I must say.

"Extraordinary thing!" I said to myself, and made my escape over the fallen fence. On the other side, I beckoned to my fellow escapees. "Come on!" I said in an urgent undervoice.

"I'm begging your pardon, Colonel, you're outside the camp now," said Newkirk, with a highly insubordinate grin. "That makes Colonel 'ogan the senior officer, and _'e_ prefers us to stay."

I was furious. This fellow knew his duty, and was wilfully flouting my authority. "You're a disgrace to the British uniform!"

"Right, sir," was his cheerful reply.

Carter spoke up then, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of an aeroplane engine. _An aeroplane engine?_ "You better get moving, Colonel. You're in the middle of a landing strip!"

"What?"

And out of the tent a ruddy aeroplane taxied, heading right for me! I took to my heels, and once I was safely in the woods, I watched in astonishment as the 'plane gained altitude and flew off, futilely chased by Colonel Klink, who frantically demanded that it stop.

Extraordinary thing indeed...but of course I now realised, as I am certain anyone reading this account suspected some time ago, that the Baroness was in all probability aboard that aircraft, and that Hogan had chosen this remarkably flamboyant means of escape for the lady (although how he accomplished it I hadn't the foggiest idea). And it occurred to me that I had better proceed with my own escape, alone.

However, I should have expected that my many deliberately unsuccessful escape attempts at Stalag 18 in no way prepared me for a successful escape from Stalag 13. In very short order I was recaptured by two of the guards and a remarkably friendly German shepherd, and I was chucked into the cooler.

While I sat in the cooler, I had the opportunity to think over the events of the last few days. At first I was a trifle vexed with Hogan and his band of hooligans. How dared they to practise on my credulous simplicity! But then calmer thoughts prevailed: perhaps my notions of duty were too rigid. The duty of a prisoner of war was to escape, and I had done my best at Stalag 18 to help other chaps with their plans to escape. Perhaps what Hogan had done here was no different.

Except, of course, that the escapee happened to be a German national. But upon reflection I was prepared to overlook that little detail. Hogan obviously meant well, and it would never do to abandon a damsel in distress, I decided.

In the end, of course, Colonel Klink blamed me for the whole affair, and soon I was sent back to Stalag 18. No doubt Hogan was glad to have me gone.

But one thing was clear to me now: Hogan and his men certainly didn't lack for a sense of purpose. I could understand that, by Jove. And if ever I met that fellow Hogan again, I would tell him so.

* * *

Emily put down the manuscript and walked over to my chair, dropping a kiss on top of my head. "Poor darling," she said. "The boys at Stalag 13 really gave you a hard time! I'd like to give _them_ a piece of my mind."

I eyed her a trifle nervously. "I'd rather you didn't, old girl," I said, but she wasn't listening.

"I never thought much about it before," she said meditatively, "but life certainly is tough for a rodeo clown."

Emily is an American, you know, and at times her statements are quite incomprehensible to me. "What on earth are you talking about?"

She gave me a direct look. "You."

_"I?"_

"Yes, you. The job of a rodeo clown is to distract the bull from a fallen cowboy in the ring, to allow the cowboy a chance to escape. That's what you volunteered to do at Stalag 18, and what you were roped into doing at Stalag 13 all unknowing...you were the person everyone laughed at, all the while your activities directed the Germans' attention away from those who were truly trying to escape."

"I was indeed laughed at," I agreed morosely. "I suppose that makes me a clown."

"But rodeo clowns save lives, too, as well as cause laughter," Emily said seriously. "You did more than you know to help the war effort, Rodney."

I brightened a bit at that, but then other memories crowded in on me and I sighed. "There were other times at Stalag 13, though...I'm thinking of my second visit, when that rather odd atomic scientist was there..."

She smiled that reassuring smile of hers and handed me the fountain pen once again.


	3. Almost an assassin

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

Crittendon's version of "The Assassin". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

* * *

Upon my return to Stalag 18, I was not at all surprised to find that Kommandant Schubert considered me _persona non grata_ at his camp. Apparently he viewed me as incorrigible for attempting an escape from Stalag 13, which everyone knew was escape-proof. And if that insufferable Colonel Klink wanted nothing to do with me, than neither did he.

So arrangements were made to send me along to Stalag 16. And, as a parting shot, Kommandant Schubert informed me that my brother Nigel was now a prisoner of war at Stalag 2.

Those Jerries could be rather snide, don't you know. Old Schubert took a positive delight in apprising me of Nigel's fate; apparently my brother, who had been attached to the British Eighth Army, was captured in Tunisia some weeks before.

A blow to the Allies, indeed! Nigel was always the clever one of the family, and was something of a military genius; he had told me once of a remarkable plan he had for recruiting partisans in occupied countries and arming them with improvised weapons. He had based his plan on extensive research of the Peninsular War of the past century, and of the_ guerrilleros_ of the Spanish countryside who had valiantly fought off Napoleon's troops during that conflict.

And now his brilliance was to be wasted in a ruddy German prison camp! Naturally, I did not allow my dismay to show on my face. I scorned to give Schubert that satisfaction; stiff upper lip and all that, don't you know. Instead, I accepted my new assignment to Stalag 16 with all the composure I could muster.

And a jolly bunch they were at Stalag 16, to be sure, but not quite the calibre of my comrades at Stalag 18. Quite lax in the escape department they were, as I soon discovered. The Escape Committee was half French and half English, and it appeared they could agree on nothing. But I had had a taste of freedom when the bally fence at Stalag 13 came down, and I was determined to escape in earnest, despite the Committee's rather lackadaisical attitude.

So as I was taking a late night toddle about the compound and pondering my next move, who should appear but a couple of lads from Hogan's group, clad all in black and creeping along the fence in a most surreptitious manner. They said they had come to collect Sergeant Gareau, one of the recently captured French chaps. A bit of luck for me, what? I led them to Gareau, and of course I insisted on coming along on their adventure. It was an ingenious scheme they had planned (one could scarcely believe they had broken _into _Stalag 16, after all), but they clearly lacked leadership: not an officer among them!

At this point in my narrative I am obliged to pause, and admit that I had another reason for insisting on joining their little band. I had reached the altogether unwelcome conclusion that I would never successfully escape on my own, and I viewed the arrival of young Carter and LeBeau as my golden opportunity. Unworthy of me, of course. I shall always hang my head in shame when I think of the proud military heritage of the Crittendons, and how I failed to uphold our noble tradition when I grasped at the chance for escape. Especially when I consider the consequences...

However, the thing was done, and right speedily, too. Hogan's men did not appear excessively pleased to have me along, but I reminded them of my rank, don't you know, and soon we were outside the wire and on our way to jolly old England.

Or so I thought. But my keen sense of direction soon informed me that we were headed on a southeasterly course: not at all the way of reaching the coast! I had just paused to reassess the situation when young Carter approached me respectfully.

"Colonel Crittendon!" he whispered, practically falling at my feet.

"Group Captain, actually," I murmured, and then I gave him a severe look. "What's the hold-up, Carter?"

The lad confessed he wasn't sure which way to go, and I confess I was a trifle impatient with him. Deucedly frustrating it was, just when I had thought Carter had the whole escape notion figured out. "Out of Germany, man!" I told him, with a touch of asperity. "The quickest way possible!"

Carter hesitantly replied, pointing eastward: "But you see, we thought that if you'd go out that way, see, and reconnoitre..."

"That's not the way at all!" I said roundly. "It's lucky I came on this escape; you've been turned around since we left Stalag 16."

"Yes, sir," he said. "Sure was lucky." But I had the oddest impression that he thought it wasn't lucky at all.

I said firmly, "Just follow me, man!"

I led the way through the woods, and we had gone but a few yards when my unbelieving gaze fell on what seemed to be yet another prison camp! There were four Jerries at the gate who started shouting in German and firing their ruddy machine guns in our direction.

"Oh, blast!" I said, for at a time such as this, I am certain one might be pardoned the use of forceful language.

With all the gunfire and dogs barking and whatnot, I was quite taken by surprise when someone caught me round the waist and dragged me down into a hole in the ground. Most irregular, I assure you.

And the next thing I knew I was in a tunnel. Once I had dusted myself off, I looked at the chap who had dragged me underground, and was surprised to note that he was Sergeant Kinchloe, another of Hogan's men. He appeared to be as surprised as I, and, I am afraid, not at all pleased when he recognised me. In fact, he looked rather annoyed.

"I don't believe it," he muttered.

Young Carter and Corporal LeBeau had followed me down the ladder, and LeBeau said, in a rather ominous tone of voice, "Ah, believe it, Kinch! He insisted on coming with us."

I looked all around me, marvelling; the tunnel was nothing at all like the one Carter and Newkirk had helped me to dig. "This is most impressive! Where are we, chaps?"

Sergeant Kinchloe growled, "We're under Stalag 13." He looked at his two comrades. "Where's Gareau?"

LeBeau flicked me a rather unpleasant look and said, "He was struck by a bullet and the guards captured him."

Carter looked a trifle anxious. "Colonel Hogan sure won't be happy about this."

Kinchloe sighed. "You got that right. But no sense in putting off giving him the bad news. Come on, Colonel, we'll take you to him now."

He led the way through a maze of tunnels and I took in the sights with a sense of wonder. There was a room that held a shortwave apparatus, and a room full of clothing - Jerry uniforms apparently, and a room containing guns and ammunition and what looked like rather a nice selection of explosive devices. We finally reached another ladder, and we all climbed up. I brought up the rear, eventually emerging into one of the prisoners' barracks.

And there was Colonel Hogan, in the flesh.

"Hogan, old boy!" I greeted him, and snapped off a brisk salute. "Good to see you again. I say, fantastic operation you've got going down there, absolutely fantastic!" I eyed him with just a bit of criticism. "Why didn't you tell me about it when I was here before, eh?"

Hogan looked as though he didn't feel at all well, poor chap. "Colonel Crittendon, at that time you said the only duty of a prisoner of war was to escape. And if we were engaged in any more than that, you'd tell the Germans."

"_I_ said that?" I replied, surprised. After I had witnessed the airplane taking off from the compound on my last visit, I had so completely reevaluated what constituted my duty in this war that I had quite forgot my initial, rather unbending, attitude. But now it all came back to me, and I had the grace to blush. "Yes, I suppose I did. Should have told me about it, though."

Hogan's voice rose slightly and he looked me in the eye. "All right, I _am_ telling you. We have the most dangerous man in Germany in camp right now. We were bringing in a trained assassin from Stalag 16 to kill him. Instead of that, YOU tag along! The whole operation gets snafued, and our man gets captured. Now I suppose you want to tell Klink!"

I was appalled that he should leap to that conclusion. "Why would I do a thing like that?"

The poor fellow was becoming a trifle agitated. "Because this and everything else we are doing in this camp is completely against what prisoners of war are supposed to do!"

Well, this was all quite true, of course, but I was in no position to cast stones, as it were. Colonel Hogan had a plan with a praiseworthy goal, and I, all unwitting, had thrown a spanner in the works. In a flash, I realised that there was the only one way I could atone for causing poor Gareau to be captured, and I responded with alacrity.

"Precisely!" I said. "That's what makes it such a smashing good show! Now, tell me about this chap I'm going to do in."

The entire group of prisoners in the barracks slowly turned to gaze at me in wild surmise.

_"You're_ gonna to do him in?" Hogan said in a disbelieving sort of way.

I tried for the light touch, don't you know; they all looked so dashed serious. Incredulous, in fact. "Well! All in a day's soldiering; can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, can we, what?"

Hogan walked over to confront me directly. "Colonel Crittendon, you've had actual field experience?"

"Tied to a desk job my whole career," I admitted. "So! I could use a keen young fellow like Carter here, and all of those firecrackers he's got down in the cellar."

At this, young Carter, Corporal LeBeau and Corporal Newkirk clustered round me eagerly, each with a suggestion for effecting the demise of the most dangerous man in Germany. Why this chap was so dangerous, I had as yet no idea. Still, one had to admire their fervour.

This was too much for Colonel Hogan, however, and he protested.

"What's up, old boy?" I enquired mildly.

His response was quite strongly worded; he appeared to be labouring under the impression that we were not approaching the problem in the proper spirit, considering the gravity of the situation. I assured him that the utmost level of professionalism would be maintained. He sighed and shook his head, and the lads and I continued our discussion on the best method of doing away with the villain.

...

After devoting a good deal of thought to the matter, I met with young Carter, and under my direction he constructed a crossbow...an ancient design, 'tis true, but most effective; most effective, indeed. Nigel had taught me how to build one when I was but a lad, and I was rather pleased that I was able to recall the detailed instructions he had given me.

"Wow, this is great," Carter said as he put the finishing touches on the weapon. "I know how to build a long bow 'cause that's what my family always uses, but this is gonna be a lot more powerful, I think." He paused in his work and sighed. "Maybe I would've had more luck with this baby than the one I used that one time, when I tried to shoot a flaming arrow into that truck carrying explosives. I ended up hitting the window frame in Colonel Hogan's office instead! Newkirk had to do the job for me in the end...I felt like such a failure. My ancestors would've been ashamed of me for sure."

I regarded the lad with sympathy. How well I knew that feeling_,_ by Jove! "Perhaps you would have been more successful, at that. Very accurate, these crossbows, and silent in the bargain. My brother Nigel considered the crossbow to be an ideal weapon for guerrilla warfare."

Carter examined the mechanism again and lovingly applied a drop of oil. "I don't know 'bout that, Colonel. No gorillas around here, far as I know. But I did hear they have chimpanzees at the Hammelburg Zoo..."

He was interrupted by the arrival of Colonel Hogan, who had the strangest expression on his face.

"Not with a _crossbow!" _was what he said. Decidedly odd...Hogan did not seem to be at all pleased with our efforts.

"Lovely weapon, you know...a silent killer!" I assured him, and after a bit he grudgingly allowed that it perhaps might have a chance.

"I just found out Vanetti's having dinner with Klink tonight in his quarters," he said. "I'll maneuver him in front of the window, and there'll be a diversion at the other end of the camp. You'll get time for one shot...make it count."

"Right...good as done." I could tell the chap was tense, and as is my wont, I endeavoured to make a little joke to lighten things up a bit, don't you know. But my facetious remark about requiring carrots to aid my night vision didn't seem to help at all.

These chaps from the Colonies have no appreciation of the British sense of humour. And really, what can one expect of people who insist on driving on the wrong side of the road?

...

Half an hour later, after a bit of awkwardness, Hogan set off for Klink's quarters and I headed for the shadowy corner from which I would launch my attack. I was to take my shot sixty seconds after the firecracker diversion started.

As I waited, crouching there in the dark, the enormity of the task before me loomed large in my mind. Throughout my entire military career I had never had the obligation to personally take the life of another human being. But this man was working on a bomb that might mean defeat for the Allies...my duty had never been more clear! So I steeled myself to the task.

I readied the crossbow, and took careful aim for the open window, which was well-lit and in clear contrast to the surrounding darkness: a jolly good target indeed. After a few moments, the sound of firecrackers exploding could be heard, and I began counting the seconds. As soon as the figure of an unfamiliar man appeared in the window, I pulled the trigger. But even as the arrow was released, the man was somehow knocked to the floor and out of the line of fire. I watched aghast as the arrow slammed home into a door across the room, pinning Colonel Klink's cap to it.

Fortunately, Colonel Klink, who had entered the room at the moment I fired the crossbow, was unhurt. But my target had escaped, and I had failed. I felt a sudden rush of relief that I had not, after all, killed a man, but I thrust it aside: there was still a job to be done. The villain was still at large, and free to continue his diabolical plans.

I had to try again.

...

The following day, I had quite the row with Colonel Hogan regarding Dr. Vanetti's continued existence. He wanted to scrap the assassination plan; Vanetti had told him that he did not want to build the atomic bomb for the Nazis, and that he desired to escape to England instead. I was far more suspicious than the foolishly trusting Hogan; this was no doubt a clever Jerry trick, and we should be remiss in our duty if we fell for it. In the event, I had to pull rank on the poor fellow in order to carry out the mission. And I was determined that we should not fail.

So I conferred with young Carter again. "I expect you chaps have had occasion to rid yourselves of undesirables in the past. How did you accomplish this, without bringing suspicion on your operation here in camp?"

"Well, gee, sir, a nice bomb usually does the trick..."

"Then that's what we'll use, man!" I told him. "It fits in nicely with Vanetti's work, too, don't you see? This blighter is building the world's most lethal bomb; if it appears as though he has blown himself up, well, that's the risk he runs for having the temerity to create such things. And it should destroy any evidence of our involvement as well."

Carter was enthusiastic, but his efforts to produce the perfect bomb for the task were not entirely successful; in fact, I had increasing fears that _he_ might blow himself up in the process. I confess I was somewhat relieved when, finally, Hogan took me aside to propose an alternate plan.

"I've decided you're right, Crittendon, but I've got a better idea than using explosives," he said. "Vanetti needs to be taken care of, and we'll get him out of camp to do it. So we'll have you dress up as a Kraut, take a little ride with Vanetti, and shoot him at close range. Then you take off cross-country, and head for England. They won't dare put you behind a desk again."

How could I refuse, after my insistence that the assassination must be carried out? I was provided with a German army uniform, a Luger, and detailed instructions, but I had my doubts.

"You're sure this is a better way, Hogan?"

"Better? It's perfect!" Hogan assured me. "Forged papers from Berlin, our own men in a staff car...all you have to do is take Vanetti out, and let him have it."

I gulped. The implications of actually taking another chap's life were haunting me again; but this time I would be face to face with my victim, looking him in the eye, dash it! "Just...ah...let him have it. You're _sure_ he's not on our side?"

Hogan told me I had convinced him of Vanetti's perfidy, and so I had no choice but to carry out the plan. I crossed the compound in the darkness to climb into the staff car alongside Vanetti, who was muffled to the eyes in scarf, hat and overcoat.

The car started up and soon we were outside the gates. We sat in silence for a time as the car drove on in the dark, and I glanced anxiously at the man seated beside me, with my heart as heavy as the weapon in my pocket. After a few minutes, I had the driver pull over and I confronted my companion, pulling the Luger out with one trembling hand. And then I realised something...

I gasped. "You're not Vanetti, you're Klink!"

Klink said, "Of course I am..." He babbled on in a nervous manner for a few moments, then he peered at me more closely. "Haven't we met before?"

I muttered, "Ah...I just remembered an appointment," and hastily exited the car.

Klink's agitated voice followed me. "Guards! Driver! He's an escapee from Stalag 16! Capture him!"

Even as I fled, I wondered how Klink knew I had escaped from Stalag 16 (since he had returned me to Stalag 18 on our previous acquaintance), but I felt absolutely no desire to go back and ask him.

What did it all mean? It wasn't until much later that I found out that Dr Vanetti was indeed seeking to escape Germany before he could be forced to create a bomb for the Nazis, and that Colonel Hogan had enabled him to escape through the tunnel system. Hogan and his men made it appear Vanetti had died in an explosion at camp, utilizing one of young Carter's bombs, just as I had planned! Except Vanetti was in no danger from this particular explosion, of course. And I had been used to decoy Colonel Klink out of camp while all this took place.

I cannot imagine why Hogan did not see fit to tell me all this at the time; I am quite sure I would have come round to his way of thinking eventually.

* * *

Emily placed the manuscript on the little table beside her chair and turned to gaze at me thoughtfully.

I became a bit nervous, don't you know, and cleared my throat. "Well, my dear? What did you think of it?"

I thought perhaps she would tell me that my stubborn refusal to listen to reason had once again caused trouble for myself. Which of course was quite true, and unfortunately it was not the last time it would happen in my dealings with Colonel Hogan.

But this was not what was weighing on her mind.

She sighed, and reached out to touch my hand. "I know there was a war on, but I really hate that you felt you had to kill someone in cold blood. It's just not like you, Rodney."

"I suppose not," I said. "Would've if I had to, though. Duty, you know."

"I know. But may I say I am very glad you didn't have to do it, after all?"

I smiled. "You may, old girl."

Emily picked up the manuscript again and looked at the last page. "So what happened after you left Klink's car? Didn't the guards try to stop you?"

"Well, yes, of course! Gave me a ruddy fright, too, when they started shooting at me..."

_"Shooting at you?"_ Emily's bonny brown eyes kindled with indignation, and she dropped the manuscript onto the table with a thump. "Are you telling me that was part of Colonel Hogan's plan? Just wait till I get my hands on him!"

I hastened to soothe her. "Well, yes, my dear, it was part of the plan, but I found out later he had arranged to put blank ammunition in the guards' guns. There was no danger, really, none at all."

She took a few deep breaths, and then nodded. "Okay. What happened then?"

I shook my head ruefully. "Recaptured yet again, by Jove! It was back to jolly old Stalag 16 for me, I'm afraid. But not for long, you see..."


	4. Colonel X

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

Missing scenes from "Hogan's Trucking Service: We Deliver the Factory to You". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

* * *

I found the atmosphere at Stalag 16 to be quite different upon my return. The Escape Committee was still at an impasse, but the lads were all keen on the idea of escaping, even though my own escape had been an abject failure. So how could I refuse to lead a group of them who were intent on securing their freedom, and rejoining the glorious Cause to which we were all devoted?

Especially since LeBeau and Carter had made escape appear so effortless when they had broken Gareau and myself out of camp.

So late one night, after carefully studying the habits of the guards (who were, I must admit, rather a dull lot), we made our way through the fence and to freedom.

I had formed the intention of heading for Stalag 13, as I was quite certain that Colonel Hogan and his lads (clever fellows that they were) would be able to assist me and my little band in our efforts to return to dear old England.

We were but a few miles shy of our goal when we encountered one of the locals, a rather nervous individual who informed us that he was a member of the German underground. He escorted us to his headquarters, a deserted barn in a remote area.

He showed us around the building, then said rather abruptly, "I am glad you are here, for my wife is very ill and I am unable to continue my work with the Resistance. You will take my place?"

I was more than a little startled. "Eh? What? No, no, my dear fellow, we really mustn't..."

"You must," he said, fixing me with a stare that reminded me forcibly of Air Commodore Thistlethwaite.

My brain is not accustomed to rapid thought, but on this occasion I came to a instantaneous decision. My lads needed a place to rest, and I needed to formulate a plan to ensure their safe passage through this barbarous country. Surely I could take over this chap's duties in the interim, while we waited for a permanent replacement for him. And then of course we would continue our trek to England.

I thought of my brother Nigel, who was at that moment incarcerated as we had been, and I thought of the plan he had devised of working with partisans. Perhaps this was a marvellous opportunity to put his plan into action! And I silently vowed to do so...at least the bits of it that I could remember.

I said to the fellow, "Very well, I shall stay, but with the understanding that my men must return to England as soon as possible," and he agreed. He showed us where he kept his maps and radio, and told us where food could be obtained.

"This is Unit 1," he said. "My code name is Peter Piper. I shall make sure the other units know that you are commanding this headquarters now. What will be your code name?"

"They call 'im 'Colonel' at camp," young Melkinthorpe offered. "Even though 'e's actually a Group Captain."

"Why not call yourself 'Colonel X', sir?" suggested Darracott. "Has a nice ring to it, eh?"

"I suppose," I said, resigned to being addressed incorrectly yet again. "'Colonel X' it is."

And that is how R. Crittendon happened to take command of an underground unit. Ah, hubris had me in its grasp, indeed; I assumed the mantle of Icarus, and flew too close to the sun! Or, as Hogan told me later with his quaint American idiom: I bit off more than I could chew.

For two days later, while the lads were out on a reconnaissance patrol, disaster struck. I received a radio message from Stüger, the leader of Unit 4, informing me that my group had been recaptured and taken back to Stalag 16.

"_What?"_ I gasped. "How?"

"Farmer with a pitchfork," he said.

"A _farmer?_ How in blazes did he manage that?" I demanded.

"The pitchfork had six prongs, Colonel," said Stüger, "and he held it at the throat of one of your men as he tried to emerge from an apple barn that he and the others had entered. The farmer's wife had already gone to phone the Gestapo...there was nothing we could do."

"No, no, of course not."

"And we have to take part in an organized attack at Arnheim on Friday," he reminded me.

I'm afraid I rather lost my head at that point. The only course of action that I could contemplate was to effect the rescue of my men! "Never mind that," I told the fellow crisply. "I have a different plan...we shall be attacking Stalag 16 instead."

"What? But we already have our instructions..."

"Ignore them, man! I am in charge of this unit, and there will be a new plan. I shall get to work on it posthaste, and make contact with you tomorrow night." I signed off over his protests, and sat for a long time with my head in my hands, wondering just how I was going to do it.

...

The next evening, I was surprised by two men who broke into the barn unexpectedly. To my further surprise, they were none other than Sergeant Carter and Corporal Newkirk, two of Colonel Hogan's men from Stalag 13. A windfall, indeed! I lost no time in appropriating them for my scheme to break my men out of Stalag 16. I ordered young Carter to do sentry duty and appointed Newkirk as my aide.

An hour or so later, as I pondered my plan and thought to myself "What would Nigel do?", the calm atmosphere of the barn was broken once again: this time by Colonel Hogan himself. I was delighted to see him, and immediately told him of the predicament my men found themselves in, and of the plan I was formulating for their escape.

"I'm afraid I've got orders that may delay your operation," he said.

"I'm in command here, Hogan," I began, my mind still occupied with how I could free my men.

"These orders are from London."

Well, I knew my duty, and orders from headquarters superseded my anguished need to rescue the brave lads who had dared to escape with me. I came to attention and snapped off my best salute. "They'll be obeyed to the letter, and I shall be with you every step of the way!"

...

Half an hour later, I waited in the woods overlooking the Arnheim ball-bearing factory. My assignment was to observe the explosion and destruction of the same, and report back to Hogan. He had told me the bomb was timed to go off at twenty-four hundred hours, and I kept glancing at my watch, wondering why the devil the explosion had not yet occurred. At nine-thirty PM I decided Hogan's lads had evidently made a mistake, and I should lose no time in informing Hogan of the failure of the mission.

That's when I spotted a lorry parked near the plant. Aha! I decided to steal it, and report to Hogan in person, rather than try to radio him from my headquarters. There was no one about, so I crept up to the vehicle. The keys were in the ignition, and a Jerry helmet and greatcoat were on the seat, so I coolly assumed the raiment and climbed into the cab. In a very brief space of time I was on my way to Stalag 13.

When I reached Stalag 13, Sergeant Schultz was at the gate and he stared at the lorry in a dazed sort of way, don't you know, and then stepped up to the driver's window. I'm not quite certain what he said to me, but I gave a grunt and a noncommittal shrug in reply, and he shrugged in return and waved me through the gates.

I parked the lorry outside of Barracks 2 and hurried in.

_"Achtung_, chaps!" I said by way of greeting, and a dozen astonished faces turned to me.

Hogan seemed less than pleased to see me, and after he rather irritably queried my presence at the stalag, he soon disabused me of my misapprehension regarding the time the explosion was due to occur.

"Twenty-four hundred hours is MIDNIGHT!" was the way he put it. And when he discovered that I had brought a lorry back to camp, and that the lorry was actually the one carrying the explosives intended for the ball-bearing factory, well! We were indubitably in a hobble, and all due to me. Of course, had he confided to me the manner in which the factory was to be destroyed, I might have never stolen that lorry...but no matter.

Abashed at my error, and horrified at what I had done, I immediately volunteered to take the lorry back to the ball-bearing plant. Since it was now being guarded by a rather large and unpleasant-looking Jerry, I assured Hogan that I would deal with the situation by using Killer Judo on the guard, to disable him long enough to scarper with the lorry. Girding up my loins, as it were, I left the barracks to confront the fellow.

Looking back now on my futile efforts to subdue the guard, I daresay the few hours I had spent developing my skills in Killer Judo were not sufficient to meet the case. It appeared that the weekend programme I had attended (entitled "Commando Training for Desk Officers") had not proven to be as efficacious as I had hoped. In any event, he immobilised me with ease, and had me in Kommandant Klink's office in a twinkling.

Klink recognised me at once, and immediately summoned a rather nasty little Gestapo agent to investigate my presence at Stalag 13. The agent arrived with promptitude, and I had just announced my intentions of telling this fellow nothing, absolutely nothing, when the phone rang.

Major Hochstetter took the call, and then told Klink he was needed at the Arnheim ball-bearing plant. He decided to take me with him for further questioning, and I was escorted out of the office and into the compound by Hochstetter's assistant.

And then an absolutely terrifying thing occurred. Hochstetter's car had a flat tyre, and he determined he would take the lorry that was parked outside Barracks 2 to the ball-bearing plant. Yes, indeed, _that _lorry. I was ordered into the back of the vehicle, Hochstetter's man climbed in alongside me, and we were off.

...

I felt a certain amount of guilt for bringing that lorry into camp with all the explosives and whatnot, but it did seem rather hard that I was going to be blown up along with it. Still, my duty demanded that I refrain from revealing to the Jerries what was on board, no matter what the consequences to myself.

And as the lorry left the camp, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing Hogan and his men were no longer at risk. But I kept my senses at their customary keen pitch, and waited for the opportunity to extricate myself from the fix I was in.

So when the lorry came to a stop a short way down the road, and my guard (who seemed to be under the not entirely unjustified impression that I was an ineffectual sort of fellow) was momentarily distracted, I gave him a jolly good thump on the head with a basket of towels, and I jumped out.

I was on the very brink of making my escape, don't you know, but I couldn't leave the poor fellow to his doom, so I reached into the back of the lorry and started to haul him out, only to be startled by a voice with a distinct accent heard only from those who hail from across the pond. A Yank, in fact.

"Looks like you saved me the trouble, Colonel."

I looked round, but the only chap visible was that ruddy Gestapo Major. He walked over to me and took a look at the guard, who was half-in and half-out of the lorry, and out like a light. Then the Major gave me a shock by taking hold of the fellow's legs and helping me to put him on the ground.

He straightened up and fixed me with a gimlet stare. "Okay, buddy, I can understand why you were trying to escape. But why take Schmidt along?"

"Because I couldn't let him..." I cut myself off. No need to let this Jerry know about the explosives, even if he did speak like an American. Trying to lull me into a false sense of security, no doubt. One must look sharp when dealing with these fellows, you know.

Major Hochstetter gave me the old whatsit look and rubbed his chin. He looked at the boxes in the back of the lorry and then back at me.

"Okay, spill it, Colonel. What's in the truck?"

I drew myself up and regarded him haughtily. "Never shall I reveal that information! No matter what mediæval tortures you plan, dash it!"

Hochstetter sighed. "Contrary to popular belief, I've never tortured anyone, so relax, Colonel." He added, thoughtfully, "You were trying to remove one of the enemy from the back of the truck...a truck that's heading from Stalag 13 to the ball-bearing plant. Must be something in there...holy crap! There's a bomb on the truck, isn't there? When does it blow?"

I hesitated, and he glared at me. "Listen, Colonel, we don't have time for chit-chat. _When does it blow?_"

Well, I was a bit rattled, to be perfectly frank, and I said, "Nineteen hundred hours...I think."

"It's eleven PM right now, damn it! Try again, Colonel."

I said, a little desperately, "I do seem to have a bit of a problem with these deuced military times. But midnight is the time Colonel Hogan told me."

Hochstetter nodded. "Midnight...I don't have much time. You take off, Colonel. I'll have the driver deal with Schmidt here and I'll drive the truck to the plant myself. Hopefully I can get clear before it blows."

Perhaps I'd misjudged the chap. "I say, Major, you're taking this in a jolly good spirit, what?"

He shrugged. "Hogan doesn't know I work for the Allies, and I'm sure he thought he was killing two birds with one stone. But you, Colonel - you're taking it pretty well too. After all, he must have known you were on the truck."

"Fortunes of war, sir," I said nobly. "Nothing must interfere with the mission...orders from headquarters, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Now get going."

I turned to go, and then I looked back. "But what shall I tell Colonel Hogan?"

Hochstetter smiled in a rather sinister fashion, but I suppose the poor fellow couldn't help it. "He'll find out that I'm still around soon enough. And someday I'm sure he'll figure out who I am. But for now, Colonel, pretend you never spoke with me tonight. Deal?"

"Very well, Major." We exchanged salutes and I started my walk back to Stalag 13. If I could avoid the guards and enter by way of the tunnel, perhaps I could consult with Hogan on what he thought I should do next. I was obviously a complete duffer as an underground leader, and I feared the skills necessary for breaking my men out of Stalag 16 were sadly lacking as well...but perhaps he could find a use for me.

As I approached the stalag, I was keeping to the edge of the road; it was jolly dark and I'd no wish to get lost, to be sure. But a small farm lorry appeared out of nowhere, taking the curve rather too fast, and headed right for me, knocking me into the ditch.

The lorry screeched to a stop, and the driver and his passenger climbed out. The gentleman was quite inebriated, and his wife said something admonishing to him, and then hurried over to me. Although flat on my back, I was quite unhurt, and told the lady so...unfortunately. For at the sound of my voice ringing with the dulcet tones of England, the gentleman reached into the lorry and pulled out something from the back. As he walked toward me he was silhouetted in the headlights of his vehicle...and the item in his hands was a blasted pitchfork!

Dashed efficient people, those Jerries. Within the space of a few minutes the farmer (as fate would have it, the same fellow who had captured my men!) and his wife brought me to Stalag 13, and turned me over to the guards there. Within another few minutes Sergeant Schultz escorted me to Barracks 2, and I rejoined Hogan and his men just in time to hear the explosion take place at midnight.

And so it was a successful mission for Hogan after all, despite my _faux pas!_

But of course Kommandant Klink lost no time the following morning in having me returned ignominiously to Stalag 16.

* * *

When Emily finished reading the manuscript, she looked up slowly and shook her head as if dazed. The dear girl seemed to be having trouble catching her breath.

"What is it, darling?" I cried.

"You...you were on a truck with _bombs_...and Bob knew about it all the time..."

I tried to soothe her outraged sensibilities. "He couldn't have known that Hochstetter would insist on taking me along to the ball-bearing plant, my dear!"

"He could have said something when you got into the truck, though!"

I shook my head. "You mustn't hold it against Hogan, my dear. He had no choice, and nor did I. Orders from headquarters, remember."

An icy glare was her only response, and I hastened to add, "And had he said anything, it would have exposed his entire operation and endangered everyone! But he and his men were quite sad at the thought of my demise, you know, and they were indeed glad to see me when I had risen from the ashes, as it were."

"I'll just bet they were glad." She was still simmering, but then a smile slowly appeared and her eyes began to twinkle. "And I guess you showed them, didn't you? You managed to escape the truck unassisted, and you made it back to Stalag 13 in one piece."

"I was determined to escape, indeed," I said. "I was not about to give up without a fight, or whatever the bally saying is."

Emily patted my arm. "Yes, and so you did! Even if your Killer Judo wasn't all that effective, you figured out a way to disable that guard. And you weren't about to let him get blown up along with the truck, either. I'm proud of you, Rodney dear."

"Thank you, old girl."

She tilted her head to one side. "I'm wondering, though. What happened after you were returned to Stalag 16?"

I sighed. "I resumed my former duties, and oddly enough the lads who had been recaptured bore me no ill-will. And things went rather smoothly for a time, until one day a couple of strange Jerries were ushered into my quarters..."


	5. The wrong plan

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

Crittendon's version of "The Crittendon Plan". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

* * *

It had been a quiet week at Stalag 16, and I was busy at my desk, looking over the schedules of the activities I had planned for the lads. A cricket game was out of the question, as the Gallic contingent of the camp absolutely refused to consider cricket a legitimate form of recreation. And although the notion of chasing a ball from one end of the compound to the other had been brought up, the English lads were of the opinion that the only form of this activity worth playing was rugby, and oddly enough this found no favour with the rest of the camp either. Soccer, on the other hand...I sighed, set the schedules aside, and picked up the list of prisoners currently in the infirmary.

I was content to wrestle with such issues for the nonce, as I had concluded that the very mention of escaping was something I daren't bring up, not after our ill-fated adventure a few weeks previously. Melkinthorpe and Darracott and the others were quite philosophical about the whole affair, and hadn't blamed me in the least, but I bore the responsibility for the entire _débâcle_, and currently I was viewed by the Escape Committee as through a glass, darkly.

I knew my duty was to escape - that hadn't changed in the least, not a bit! - but I had determined that I alone should undertake the risk in any future attempts.

My musings were interrupted when the door of my quarters flew open, and Schlenker, one of the more respectful guards, stepped inside, accompanied by two officers in _Heer _uniform. He announced: "Colonel Crittendon, Major!"

I regarded his companions with some astonishment. I could not imagine why these men had so rudely intruded on my hitherto peaceful afternoon. "What's going on here?"

Even as the shorter of the two new arrivals began to speak, I recognised them for who they were: Colonel Hogan and young Carter, sporting Jerry uniforms and speaking German into the bargain! I was shocked, don't you know, very much shocked indeed. I assumed they had defected to the Germans, and as soon as Schlenker took himself off, I addressed the two in a tone that left them in no doubt of my disapproval of their conduct.

"I must say I'm surprised at you chaps going over to Jerry!" I said, regarding them both with a stern eye. I added, more in sorrow than in anger: "You especially, Carter."

But Hogan speedily disabused me of this notion. "We did _not_ turn traitor! We forged some papers to get you outta here, so listen."

So they were here to spring me from the Jerry trap? Jolly good! But I was embarrassed about my hasty assumption, and I tried to make light of my error by jokingly demonstrating my tunnel-making abilities with a soup spoon. Hogan was not amused, however; I had observed that he tended to be quite humourless whenever we met, poor chap!

He glared at me and demanded to know if I were the author of the Crittendon Plan.

Startled, I replied in the affirmative, and after heaving a mighty sigh, Hogan told young Carter to get the guard, and the three of us were escorted through the common room of the barracks.

I was so delighted to hear that London was considering implementing the Plan that I quite lost my head. I had always grieved over the fact that the War Office had not considered the portion of the Plan regarding geraniums as worthy of consideration. And now they were to do it! If it were not for the fact that I was obliged to leave my lads in durance vile, I should have been walking on air. As it was, I was unable to respond to their looks of anxious enquiry as I was led off by two supposed Jerry officers, for fear of revealing the true identities of Hogan and Carter. I could only offer my men a sincere salute, and a few words to cheer them after I had gone.

We went out into the compound, and to my surprise, Sergeant Schultz was occupying the passenger seat of the lorry Hogan and young Carter had brought. It seemed most irregular to bring a Jerry along on an escape attempt, but I forbore questioning Hogan about his odd choice of companion on this venture, as he was quite irritable for some reason.

I greeted Schultz courteously, and he responded with a roll of the eyes and a sickly smile. _"Guten Tag, _Colonel Crittendon."

"Group Captain, actually," I murmured, faint but pursuing; but I had no chance to elaborate further. Hogan hustled me into the back of the lorry, while young Carter climbed into the driver's seat.

It wasn't until we were safely outside Stalag 16 that the import of what Hogan had said about the Crittendon Plan came to me, and it was very evident that a dreadful error had been made. I could see that the back of the lorry was loaded with explosives, arms, and a shortwave radio. Obviously Hogan was planning some sort of sabotage operation, and he had not come to Stalag 16 with the intention to help me to escape; he was looking for a Crittendon with a plan entirely different from mine!

And that meant London had _not_ suddenly decided that my plan was worthy of implementation, after all. I swallowed my bitter disappointment and faced up to the situation.

"Steady on, old boy," I said to Hogan, with a sigh of regret. "I fear I am not the Crittendon you seek. My brother Nigel is the one with the knowledge of military strategy; _m__y_ forte is bolstering the morale of the troops."

Hogan looked quite disgusted. "Believe it or not, Crittendon, we figured that one out already. But we're stuck with you now."

I was unable to perceive just how my presence on his proposed expedition could be of any help, so I felt impelled to protest. "But, I say! I've no skills for the sort of operation you plan, none at all! I tried to do my bit as the infamous Colonel X, don't you know, and look where that got us! No, no, my duty is to escape, and escape only. I shall leave the extracurricular activities to you chaps."

Hogan looked even more grim, if such a thing were possible. "I heartily agree, but we have no choice. Our contacts are expecting an actual Colonel Crittendon, with an actual plan. So you're coming with us." He shook his head, and repeated, "We have no choice."

...

A short time later, Hogan led us into a local pub, and Schultz, who appeared to be rather unhappy travelling with our motley crew (for which I could scarcely blame him), sidled off to a dark corner. The rest of us took a rather prominent position in the main room.

I looked around with a bit of trepidation, don't you know. True, the denizens of this establishment seemed sublimely indifferent to our presence, but the fact remained that I was in RAF uniform, accompanied by two men who were ostensibly officers of the Third Reich. Dashed uncomfortable it was, I must say; but perhaps it was the done thing for the Jerries to treat a captured Allied airman to a drink.

However, I was still deeply uneasy about Hogan and young Carter appearing in German uniform. It was all very well for me: should our presence be challenged, I should merely be chucked back into a POW camp; but if they were to be unmasked, it would mean the firing squad!

It didn't make me feel any better to realise that my presence here only added to their risk, especially since I had no hopes of actually being able to contribute to their scheme. In fact, if events ran true to form, I should soon find myself doing something rather foolish, and the entire plan would fail. How I wished this were only one of my futile escape attempts, one that did not place my companions in further danger!

I said something to this effect, and Hogan turned to fix me with an icy glare. He told me again how necessary it was that a Crittendon be present at this meeting, since his contacts would be expecting me. He added, "Are you in with us, or not?"

Well, I had no choice, of course. I subsided, and we all waited for Hogan's partisan contacts to arrive.

A short time later a middle-aged couple came in and seated themselves at the next table. Young Carter had indicated they were indeed the people we had been waiting for, and I sat bemused whilst a decidedly odd conversation took place. It was all quite nonsensical, the code phrases they were using, and I'm afraid I allowed my mind to wander; when Carter mentioned his pet rabbit, I automatically began to relate a reminiscence of the little bunny I had had as a child.

Dash it all! Just as I had anticipated, I had done something foolish. The chap at the next table leapt to his feet, crying, "That is not in the code!" and poor Hogan was obliged to smooth over the misapprehension caused by my unguarded speech. Fortunately, he was successful in this, and we all left the pub with the two partisans, collecting another of their group, a young lady by the name of Carla, on the way out.

...

We had made camp for the night and I was deep in slumber, dreaming of England and my pet rabbit Scruffy, when I was roused by a touch on my cheek. It was the young lady, Carla! I asked where the others had gone, and she told me she would take me to them. Half-asleep and utterly bewildered as to why she was showing such an interest in me, I agreed.

We wandered the woods for a bit, and Carla expressed curiosity regarding the Plan. "Won't you tell me all about it, Colonel? I am sure it must be brilliant." Well, I was flattered, of course! She listened closely as I described the Crittendon Plan in detail; giving it far more attention, indeed, than the War Office ever had. She kept asking me questions, and unfortunately I quite forgot Hogan's admonitions regarding revealing the true nature of the Plan.

During our talk we meandered back to the clearing where we had left young Carter and the lorry. Hogan, Marko and Nadya had returned, and I am afraid this was when the excrement encountered the cooling device. Carla told her comrades about the Plan in a rather scornful tone, and Marko, believing somehow that he had been betrayed and reacting rather rashly, smashed the radio.

Well! As I said at the time, bad show! We were relying on a B-17 squadron to bomb the convoy as it approached the tunnel, and now we had no way of notifying them. Hogan was understandably upset, don't you know, and most displeased with me for spilling the beans and thus damaging his credibility.

And I reflected sadly that the Plan had not impressed Carla after all.

...

Deprived of our ability to contact the bomber group, we were forced to improvise. Hogan decided the best way to (as he put it) "get the biggest bang for our buck" was to attach a bomb to the lead vehicle of the convoy, timed so it would go off once the convoy had entered the tunnel. Carter put together a bomb suitable for attaching to a lorry, and the task of attaching it was given to me.

Well, it was not my area of expertise, as I informed Hogan, but I was more than willing to do my bit (although I feared that my chances of success were somewhat limited). And as soon the lead lorry of the convoy approached, Carla stepped out into the road, confident that her winning smile would cause them to stop.

And of course, so they did, influenced by her smile or perhaps by her other charms; it was impossible for me to tell, since I was now lying in wait beneath our lorry. I could hear young Carter ordering the driver out of the lead lorry, chastising the poor fellow in German. I could understand perhaps one word in three of his tirade, but it was apparent young Carter had quite a gift for intimidation. Very strange, actually; one would never know it to look at him.

Meanwhile, clutching the bomb and detonator in one hand, I crawled underneath the halted lorry, desperately trying to figure out a way to attach the bomb to the petrol tank as Hogan had instructed me.

I wonder if you have ever had a similar experience? Say that you are at the cinema, and you have a queue of people waiting behind you as you are standing at the box-office. The crowd behind you grows restless as you are attempting to take money out of your pocket to pay the girl.

And so you drop a coin to the ground in your haste, and the chap behind you mutters something under his breath. When you apologise, he replies in a sarcastic tone, "Oh, think nothing of it, my dear fellow! The show won't be starting for, oh, at least a minute or two! Take your time, by all means!"

Well, naturally this does nothing to make your fingers more nimble, does it, and as you continue to fumble for the correct change and drop more coins to the ground, the persons farther back in the queue begin to set up a snarling worthy of the lions at the zoo.

You perceive my point? This was precisely the feeling I had as I was fumbling under that blasted lorry, frantically trying to affix a bundle of dynamite to the petrol tank. The dratted bundle slipped from my grasp at one point and rolled out from under the lorry. I reached for it without success, then I spotted Hogan's boot (which had been tapping impatiently, much in the manner of the chap I mentioned above), nudging the bundle so that it rolled back toward me.

I picked the bundle up gratefully and resumed my effort at securing it in place. At one point I heard a single gunshot, and I feared for my companions, but I grimly stuck to my task, and at length the thing was done. And all the while young Carter continued his rant at the unfortunate lorry driver! At this point I heard him say, "Drive on!" and I crawled out from under the lorry in a manner most undignified.

Once the lead lorry had gone, Carter drove our lorry into the woods, out of sight, and we all watched as the rest of the convoy rumbled by. As the last lorry disappeared into the tunnel, I asked Hogan when the bomb was timed to go off. When he replied, "Two minutes," I confess that my knees went quite weak, and I thought for a brief moment that I should forever disgrace myself by fainting.

However, we Crittendons are not known for giving way, regardless of the circumstances, and so I said merely, "Coo! I'm glad I didn't know."

...

After the successful mission, we returned to the pub where we had left poor Schultz. He was happy to see us, and even happier when Hogan told him we were returning to Stalag 13. They dropped me off a mile or so shy of the camp, and I was able to enter the emergency tunnel without encountering any Jerries. Hogan's men were kind enough to equip me for the trip to England, and since there was some doubt whether I could pass myself off as German, it was arranged for me to be escorted to the sub by a member of the underground.

Despite all of these preparations, Hogan seemed to have some doubt that I should actually complete the trip successfully. He eyed me as I presented myself attired as a German civilian, and all he said was, "Just play dumb."

I was somewhat affronted, but then Sergeant Kinchloe interjected hastily, "He means that literally, Colonel. Pretend that you're unable to speak, and let Kurt do all the talking for you. That's what we tell all the guys who can't speak German."

Mollified, I thanked him and his comrades, and gave them all a brisk salute. Hogan stepped forward and shook hands with me.

"Thanks, Crittendon. Don't think we could've pulled this one off without you...and now that I think of it, my original plan of using B-17s would've ended with casualties for the bombers, not to mention ourselves, so our improvisation paid off in more ways than one. All's well that ends well, right? Good luck, and...I hope you won't take this the wrong way..."

"You'd rather I didn't visit jolly old Stalag 13 again," I supplied for him, stating the obvious. "Rest assured, Colonel Hogan, that I shall do my utmost to fulfil that wish."

* * *

Emily smoothed the last page of the manuscript and looked up at me with a crooked smile. "And you made it safely back to England?"

"Piece of cake," I assured her.

"I knew you would!" She snuggled closer to me and added, "But you left something out, didn't you? Who ended up with the girl?"

I blinked. "Eh?"

"The girl," she said patiently. "Carla."

"Oh! Hogan, of course. Quite the ladies' man, you know."

"Yes, I know." She chuckled and looked at the manuscript again. "You know, Rodney dear, you were really the hero of this adventure. It must have been nearly impossible to function under the amount of pressure in that situation. And yet you did the job you were given, and you did it well. You need to give yourself some credit! After all, even Colonel Hogan acknowledged your contribution...eventually."

I smiled reminiscently. "Why yes, so he did! Pity that I found myself unable to keep my promise to him."

"Your promise?"

"About not returning to Stalag 13, old girl." I shook my head. "Circumstances beyond my control, of course. When they needed someone to take Hogan's place so he could return to the States, I had to volunteer for the job! It was my duty, you know."

Emily began to laugh. "Of course it was! Oh boy, I can hardly wait to read about it." She handed me the fountain pen with a smile.


	6. Senior POW Officer again

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

This chapter (and, in fact, the entire story) is in response to a challenge posed by Jennaya, who wanted an explanation for Crittendon's presence in this episode. There is also a reference to a plot point from Goldleaf83's excellent story, "Swapping Generals".

Crittendon's version of "Hogan, Go Home". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

* * *

Upon my return to jolly old England, I was obliged to undergo a rather extensive debriefing session regarding the time I had spent in Germany. I responded in the frank and open manner for which I am justly known, and at one point in the proceedings, the interrogating officer gave me a decidedly odd look.

"Been at Stalag 13, have you?"

"Several times," I assured him, and I would have elaborated, but he interrupted me.

"And you know Colonel Hogan, of the United States Army Air Forces?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied. "As a matter of fact..."

The officer held up his hand, effectively silencing me, and tapped his pencil on the desk for a few moments. Then, with an air of decision, he said, "That will be all for today, Crittendon." He gathered up his papers and got to his feet, adding, "We'll be sending you over to the Special Operations Executive office now."

A bit puzzled, I found myself shuffled along to a dreary office in an underground bunker below Baker Street. A smiling member of the ATS met me at the door, and offered me a cup of tea. No milk, of course; it was apparent that SOE was subject to the same wartime rationing as everyone else, and I made no complaint. Indeed, the opportunity to drink tea at all was something I treasured, after my years of deprivation as a guest of the ruddy Jerries.

I looked around the room with some interest. So this was where the Johnnies who helped the underground did their work! I was most impressed by the efficiency of the clerical staff, who were manning telephones, monitoring various devices, attaching pins to a map of Europe on the wall, and scurrying hither and thither with clipboards in hand.

An inner office door opened, and a shortish balding fellow stepped out. He was wearing the uniform of a major in the Regular Army, and I got to my feet. We exchanged salutes, and he bade me come in and sit down.

"I am Major Shawcross, Colonel Crittendon..."

"Group Captain, actually," I said, making an heroic effort to avoid gritting my teeth. "RAF, don't you know. No colonels there."

"Eh? Oh, yes, yes, of course. My apologies, Crittendon." He glanced at the papers scattered on his desk. "And I expect that was one of the reasons we made that _perfectly_ understandable error a couple of weeks ago, when we had the Stalag 13 lads spring you from Stalag 16. Wrong Crittendon, and wrong plan into the bargain! But by all accounts you acquitted yourself well, eh?"

I demurred a bit. "I'm not at all certain that Colonel Hogan would agree."

He dismissed my comment with a wave of his hand. "In the end, the two of you got the job done, what? That's the important thing, old boy. Now, if you could supply us with some further information on the operation..."

He was interrupted by another chap entering the office, and for a brief moment I thought I was suffering from double vision. The new arrival was another shortish balding Army officer, this time a colonel, but in all other respects identical to the one sitting before me.

Shawcross noted my confused expression and smiled. "May I present my cousin Colonel Wembley? Coz, this is Colonel Crittendon...oh, dear me, my apologies, sir..._Group Captain_ Crittendon."

I stood once more and saluted, and once more was instructed to sit. I gazed at the identical faces before me and sighed. As unnerving as it was to see Major Shawcross's double, it wasn't precisely a situation that was totally unfamiliar to me.

For I, too, had a cousin, one whom was often mistaken for me, and vice versa. Why, I am not sure, since in my opinion Charles did not look at all like me. He was from the Wooster side of the family, I need hardly say (our mothers were sisters), with all of the Wooster vacuity and none of the Wooster amiability. He concealed a weak chin with a rather ridiculous imperial, and was quite short-sighted (in more ways than one), which prompted him to wear pince-nez of an outdated style.

I could not abide the fellow, and never did like being mistaken for him, even when we were lads at school. And as an adult he justified my early childhood revulsion by becoming a rapscallion, a traitor, and a villain of the deepest dye. He had joined the Cliveden set, and made no secret of his sympathy for the Nazi regime. However, he was so excessively foolish that I had no fears of his having any actual influence on the conduct of the war.

And if anyone should consider that I lack family feeling, might I remind the reader that Kaiser Wilhelm and King George V were first cousins? No love lost there, I'll be bound!

Whilst I was thinking dark thoughts about my own unpleasant cousin, the two cousins before me were involved in a somewhat agitated discussion.

"We have no choice, my dear fellow!" the Major said earnestly to his doppelgänger. "If the Americans want their man back, he must go back! Our claims on Colonel Hogan aren't official, in any case. He was only lent to us, as it were."

Wembley sighed. "Pity. He's been doing stellar work for us, you know. And where are we to find a suitable replacement? A man _au fait _with the interior of Germany, and one who possesses the necessary qualifications, including military rank?"

I cleared my throat. "Might one enquire why the Yanks want Colonel Hogan back?"

Shawcross's sigh echoed his cousin's. "A General Barton has been petitioning the High Command to reward Hogan for his sacrifice in serving at a POW camp, with all the hardships and danger involved. Apparently the General feels he owes Hogan for his own freedom, and wishes to return the favour. And now we have received word from General Butler, Hogan's commanding officer in the Eighth Air Force. He says they want to send Hogan back to the States for a bond-selling tour. A tremendous boost to the morale for the homefront, you see: a _bona fide_ hero returned to them."

"Devil of a fellow, too," I mused, with just a touch of envy. "Hogan, I mean. Handsome, and all that. The ladies will love it, to be sure."

"Well, that's all very well for the American homefront," grumbled Wembley. "Hands across the sea, as it were. But what are _we_ to do?"

I cleared my throat again. "If you are seeking a volunteer..."

Shawcross pounced on this with alacrity. "Splendid! Just what I had hoped!"

"Yes, indeed," concurred his cousin. "The very man for the job! At first I feared that you might not wish to return to life in a POW camp, but I can tell you have the sand to do it. Stout fellow!"

"One moment, if you please," I said. "I should be very glad indeed to help Hogan get home, but am I truly the man you want? My brother Nigel..."

"Is Regular Army and wouldn't be placed in a Luftstalag in any case," Wembley countered swiftly. "Besides, you are intimate with the workings of Stalag 13, are you not?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"And you have had commando training, of course?"

"Well, there _was_ that one weekend in Leeds, but..."

"Excellent!" He turned to Shawcross. "I do believe we have our man. Shall I contact General Butler?"

"Yes, do. Tell him we'll arrange to drop Crittendon at Stalag 13 sometime next week."

"Jolly good. Cheerio, chaps!" With that, Wembley biffed off, and Shawcross and I were left staring at one another.

Now that everything was settled, Shawcross appeared to have second thoughts, and he eyed me with a bit of concern. "I say, it's all very well to drop you in the vicinity of Stalag 13, but won't the Jerries try to ship you off to some interrogation centre or other?"

I sighed. "Not if Kommandant Klink knows I'm in the neighbourhood. The wretch seems to delight in making poor Hogan uncomfortable, and no doubt he'll welcome the opportunity to instal me as Senior POW Officer in Hogan's place. Did it once before, don't you know...positively cackled with glee when he informed Hogan of the fact."

"Capital! We'll arrange to have him notified immediately of your capture, then."

I was a bit dizzy with the new development, and it would have been quite easy to fall prey to second thoughts myself. But it was evident that my duty lay clearly before me, and so I resolved to strive to the very best of my somewhat limited ability to take Hogan's place.

...

Parachute-jumping was not and never shall be one of my favourite pastimes, but I was able to land safely within cooee of Stalag 13. It would seem my good fortune ended there, however, for I had no sooner divested myself of my parachute harness than I was confronted by a local farmer armed with a pitchfork.

A situation that initially gave me a bit of jolt, as I am sure the reader of this account can well imagine, but it transpired that this was _not_ the same farmer who had captured me before. As a matter of fact, the fellow turned out to be Kurt, the member of the underground who had escorted me to the sub on my last adventure! He informed me that his current assignment was to see me safely delivered to Stalag 13.

But first Kurt took me to his home, and his wife gave me a jolly good meal before they contacted Stalag 13. And just as I had anticipated, as soon as Klink learned of my capture he demanded that I should be brought to the camp posthaste.

...

Klink was even more delighted to see me than I had thought possible. As soon as Sergeant Schultz brought me to his office, the Kommandant leapt to his feet and approached me with a broad smile. "Colonel Crittendon! How marvellous to see you again. Please, have a cigar."

"Thank you, but I don't smoke." Quite apart from the fact that he had addressed me as Colonel yet again, it pained me to see Klink's obsequious behaviour when I knew full well it was calculated to score off poor Hogan. However, I reminded myself that Hogan would soon be free of the fellow, and kept my thoughts to myself.

Impervious to the rebuff, Klink donned his cap and overcoat and told me he would accompany me to my new quarters. "i want to see the look on Hogan's face when you walk into the barracks," he gloated. "I have already warned him that you would be coming, but still, this will be priceless!"

I sighed inwardly, but fell into step alongside the Kommandant for the short walk across the compound to Barracks 2.

Sergeant Schultz opened the barracks door with a flourish, announcing _"Achtung!" _Kommandant Klink followed him inside, and I could hear the diabolical triumph in his voice as he said, "I want you to meet your _new_ commanding officer!"

Well, there was nothing for it, was there, so I stepped into the barracks, offering a smart salute.

The faces that greeted me were familiar, but I was simply shocked at how haggard the lads appeared when they first caught sight of me.

"Colonel Klink!" I demanded. "Have you been torturing these men?"

Klink indignantly denied the accusation, but it was abundantly clear that he viewed my arrival as an exquisite punishment for Hogan, and, it would appear, his men as well. The blighter concluded his remarks with a sneering aside to Hogan, accompanying the words with a gesture: "Chop, chop, chop!"

What this meant I hadn't the least notion, but it was evident that Hogan understood Klink's meaning very well. I could only deplore the animosity Klink bore him, even as I acknowledged that this animosity had guaranteed my presence in the camp at this crucial juncture.

And bearing this in mind, as soon as Klink had taken his spiteful leave I took Hogan aside to assure myself that he had received his orders from the High Command. He had indeed, and although he displayed his usual demeanour of cool composure, it occurred to me that perhaps my presence at Stalag 13 was not, for him at least, a source of unalloyed joy. In the face of Hogan's disapproval, I quite lost my own composure, and found myself fumbling like a bewildered schoolboy.

Dash it all, it would seem that every time I encountered the fellow I made an absolute fool of myself, and this occasion was no different. When Hogan quite properly asked for the identification papers I had been given, it took me a few agonised moments of searching before I remembered I had hidden them in the crown of my cap. And when he perused the papers and gave them back to me to destroy, somehow I managed to start a conflagration in the basket the chaps of Barracks 2 used as a laundry hamper.

Can it be a cause for wonder that I slunk off to Hogan's quarters in abject embarrassment? Not that I felt much better once I had attained that sanctuary; never had I felt less fit to lead men than I did at that moment. And this group of men deserved a leader of the calibre of Colonel Hogan, not a fellow such as myself.

But I got myself in hand, and reminded myself that I had chosen this path willingly. Hogan had been ordered home, and for better or for worse, it was my duty to take his place.

Ah, to be more like Hogan; that was the idea, by Jove! I pulled off my cap and removed my tunic and tie. Better, but not quite right. As I hung my tunic in the cupboard that served as a wardrobe, I noticed a spare shirt of Hogan's hanging there. The very thing! I exchanged it for my own, rolled up the sleeves, and immediately felt better prepared to deal with the situation.

My eyes then fell on my swagger cane, which I had placed on Hogan's desk. He had nothing to compare with that little item, I should wager. SOE had a department that specialised in developing gadgets for use by its agents and the underground, and they had built the swagger cane to my exact specifications. I was inordinately proud of the thing, and I could hardly wait to demonstrate it to Hogan.

And I had my opportunity a few moments later when Hogan entered the room. I pulled the hidden sword from the cane and brandished it about a bit, but although Hogan readily admitted how sharp the blade was, on the whole he seemed rather unimpressed with the weapon. I was quite disappointed, for I had hoped to redeem myself somewhat with my little demonstration. Still, there was a job to be done, and I was ready to get on with it.

"I've been giving some thought to your escape from here," I began, but Hogan shook his head.

"It can't be from here," he said. "We're blowing up the Berlin Express and the Kessling refinery tomorrow night...any escape from Stalag 13 would be too risky."

I thought for a moment. "Supposing you were to be transferred to another camp, and while on route you made your escape with the aid of the underground?"

For the very first time in our acquaintance, a gleam of what might have been approval appeared in Hogan's eye. "That's a good idea, but how do we arrange my transfer?"

I smiled. "If Klink thought that an important prisoner like Colonel Hogan were attempting an escape, he'd have you out of here before you could try it."

The gleam was replaced by an outright smile of approbation. "He sure would, and I know just the pitch I'm gonna give to him."

"Colonel Hogan!" I deftly blocked his exit by planting the tip of the sword into the door. "The Senior Officer is the only one to have contact with the Kommandant. _I'll_ do the talking."

Hogan protested, but I was adamant. It was _my_ idea, dash it, and I was going to see it through.

...

I was rather pleased with how well my interview with Klink went. Ah, the look of horror on his face when I told him of Hogan's escape plans! I chuckled to myself as I pictured it once more, and my spirits rose, only to be cast down again when Corporal Newkirk came into my quarters, his face grim.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but Colonel 'ogan needs to speak with you."

"Very well," I said, getting to my feet. "Where might he be found?"

Newkirk gave me a glare that can only be described as bordering on the insubordinate. "In the cooler..._sir_."

_"What?"_

"Ol' Klink got the wind up about the Colonel possibly escaping, and decided to toss 'im in there for safekeeping."

"How perfectly dreadful! That wasn't the plan at all!"

"No, sir."

"But how can I possibly get into the cooler to speak with Hogan?"

Newkirk sighed. "You'll 'ave to get the Kommandant's permission, but it'll be a piece o' cake for _you_, sir; 'e likes _you."_

I did not make the error of assuming that this was a compliment. "I'll go at once."

"Just a moment, sir." Newkirk pulled a small object from his pocket and handed it to me.

"A key?" I looked down on it in confusion. "But how on earth will this help? If this is to free Hogan...once he's discovered to be gone from the cooler, he'll be swiftly returned, and in chains!"

"That's as may be, sir." Newkirk's expression was wooden. "All I know is, I was to give it to you, so you can take it to Colonel 'ogan. And sir, once you go to the cooler, you can speak freely to the Colonel, on account of LeBeau will be distracting Schultz whilst you're there."

...

It was somewhat difficult to convince the Kommandant that I required a private audience with Hogan, but at length he relented, since I had been sensible enough, he said, to tell him of Hogan's nefarious plans.

Once inside the cooler, and the two of us were alone, I produced the key as requested, although I felt honour bound to try to dissuade Hogan from any rash actions. He brushed my objections aside and told me to just unlock his cell door and leave it closed.

He added, "And when you leave here, go to Klink and tell him I wanna see him."

I assented, although Hogan's method of getting himself transferred to another camp seemed quite mad to me.

In the end, though, he was proven to be quite correct. What Hogan said to Klink I had no way of knowing, but the next morning the Kommandant decided that no cooler could hold Hogan for long, and he arranged for the Colonel to be transferred to Stalag 15. Thus the scheme to free Hogan whilst being transferred could progress as we had originally planned, and so the lads and I made ourselves ready.

However, a certain (and quite unforeseen) urgency entered the proceedings when, just as Hogan was climbing into the transport lorry, it was revealed that he would be making his journey via the Berlin Express...and the lads had already planted the bombs to sabotage it! We all strove to conceal our disquiet regarding this new development, and I was very glad indeed that I had been allowed to give Hogan my swagger cane, with its hidden blade. With apparent unconcern, we all waved goodbye to the lorry as it rolled through the front gates.

But there was not a moment to lose. As soon as we could, Kinchloe, Newkirk, LeBeau, young Carter and I donned loggers' clothing and equipped ourselves with firearms and, in my case, an axe. Broad daylight though it was, we left the camp via the emergency tunnel, for we were determined to intercept that lorry and free Hogan.

We took up our position on the appointed section of the Hammelburg road and I hacked away at the base of a pine tree, preparatory to felling it. Sergeant Kinchloe opined that I should just chop the tree down, block the road, and be done with it, but Corporal Newkirk agreed with me that timing the fall of the tree precisely as the lorry approached would afford us the benefit of surprise.

So when LeBeau, who had been acting lookout, announced that the lorry was nearing, I raised my axe on high, gave the trunk a mighty whack, and the tree toppled...in the wrong direction. And the lorry buzzed past us, all unheeding, with Hogan in the back, exasperation writ large upon his face.

I could not imagine where I had gone wrong; each stroke of my axe had been precisely delivered, dash it! "Extraordinary thing!" I said, but there was no one to hear, as the lads had scampered off in pursuit of the vehicle.

I watched them go, and shook my head. They were determined to rescue their commander, and of course in their eyes Hogan was still - and always would be - their commander. Neither I nor anyone else could take his place. And in this current situation I knew quite well that my presence would not be wanted or needed. The lads were quite capable of effecting the rescue without my help; that is, if Hogan hadn't freed himself already...he had my swagger cane, after all!

I picked up my axe and headed back toward Stalag 13 and the emergency tunnel, thinking deeply.

What now? The plan had been to free Hogan and see him on his way to London, and then return to camp by way of the emergency tunnel, with no one the wiser that we had ever left. But I knew in my heart that Hogan's sense of duty was no less strong than my own, and his duty lay with his command at Stalag 13, _not_ crisscrossing the North American continent selling war bonds. Orders or no, he could never desert his men.

I smiled a little ruefully. My immediate task, therefore, was to make any flouting of orders a moot point. If I were to be sent away from Stalag 13, Hogan would be forced to remain, would he not?

And nothing would enrage Colonel Klink more than to have me, his prized tool of revenge against Hogan, discovered outside the wire. There was no doubt that I should find myself branded a trouble-maker and packed off to some other prison camp forthwith.

My duty was clear. I tossed my axe into the underbrush, squared my shoulders, and with head held high, marched off...not in the direction of the emergency tunnel, but toward the front gates of jolly old Stalag 13.

* * *

Emily looked up from the manuscript. "And how did Klink react when you were spotted outside the gates?"

"Absolutely apoplectic, I give you my word!" I said, with relish. "He had me sent off to Stalag 15 with indecent haste. But most fortunately, _not_ by way of the Berlin Express."

My wife shook her head. "You're smiling now, but it couldn't have been easy for you, going to some unknown POW camp yet again."

"No." I sighed, remembering. "No, it wasn't. But it was my..."

"...your duty. Yes, I know." Emily's eyes glowed as she leaned over to give me a butterfly kiss. "Have I told you how proud I am of you, Rodney dear?"

"You have, old girl," I said. "But feel free to tell me again, eh?"

"Oh, I will, but first tell me how things went at Stalag 15."

"Well, it was dashed odd, don't you know. The Kommandant at Stalag 15 apparently knew of me from the Kommandants of Stalags 18 and 16, and wanted nothing at all to do with me. I was sent off almost immediately to Stalag 12 instead."

"And what happened at Stalag 12?"

"Now, that was another odd thing, by Jove! One night I had two very strange visitors..."


	7. Becoming Sir Charles

_A/N:I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

Crittendon's version of "Lady Chitterly's Lover". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

* * *

I had settled into the dreary routine at Stalag 12, and one evening I was making my customary walk round the compound when I was accosted by two figures, dressed all in black. This of course engendered a distinct feeling of _déjà vu, _and as I peered at their darkened faces, I was not at all surprised to discern that the two intruders were Corporal Newkirk and Sergeant Carter.

I was most touched, upon my word. They had come to enable me to make my escape!

But no. Young Carter informed me that I was wanted at Stalag 13 to assist with some scheme or other.

I was appalled, of course. This could not end well, don't you know; every time I set foot in Stalag 13 I created problems for Colonel Hogan, and I was loath to return. So I refused categorically; espionage was not an arena in which I shone, and I was determined to never cause Hogan difficulties again. My only duty was to escape, and so I told the lads, in no uncertain terms.

And then I felt cold steel pressed against my temple. "Sorry, sir," Carter said, with an unwonted note of determination in his voice.

"I'm afraid you 'ave to come with us," said Newkirk, who had a pistol of his own trained on me. "The Colonel 'as requested the honour of your presence, and we wouldn't want to disappoint 'im now, would we, sir?"

I was rather nonplussed at the turn of events. "Might I remind you that I outrank Colonel Hogan?"

"Well, sure, you can remind us, sir," said young Carter. "But we know that already."

Newkirk waved his pistol in the direction of the Stalag 12 fence. "Makes no difference, sir. We've got our orders from Colonel 'ogan to bring you along, and no mistake. Now, are you going to come along quiet-like?"

Blast! But what was one to do? I went with them meekly enough.

...

Back once again at jolly old Stalag 13, I attempted to reason with Colonel Hogan. "I say, old boy, don't you remember Colonel X? And the Crittendon Plan? And my attempt to bamboozle Colonel Klink that ended with your being chucked into the cooler? And..."

"Never mind all that, Crittendon," said Hogan. "We'll let bygones be bygones, because we need your help with this situation."

I was quite exasperated with the fellow. Didn't he recall _at all_ the havoc I had wreaked during my previous visits? "Dash it all, Hogan, this is most irregular. I mean, I appreciate your men breaking me out of Stalag 12, but why bring me here? A prisoner's first duty is to escape, Hogan! Escape!" As an afterthought, I added: "I escaped seventeen times last year."

"Congratulations," Hogan said absently, as he adjusted Carter's collar. He and his men were clustered round young Carter, who was being decked out in a German army uniform; just why he was so attired was as yet a mystery to me.

I spared a glance for them as I paced Hogan's quarters, and I continued to expostulate with the Colonel, but to no avail.

He finally turned and fixed me with an icy glare. "Crittendon, there's a very important visitor in camp: British. Sir Charles Chitterly...a traitor. And he just happens to look like _you."_

At the sound of the despised name, I recoiled in horror.

Sir Charles, indeed! It was a mystery to me how his name ever came to be placed on the Honours List. And it had been rumoured that King Edward VIII's ill-advised elevation of my cousin to the knighthood was the true reason for Edward's abdication, not _l'affaire_ Simpson. (But I digress.)

My dastardly cousin was in Germany...what had the bounder done now? An uncontrollable rage filled me, all the stronger because this traitor was of my own blood, and no less significant for being on the distaff side. The honour of the Woosters was being impugned, and this blackguard, this...this stain on the escutcheon of a proud family, must be eliminated forthwith!

I am not a violent sort of chap, to be sure, but I saw what needed to be done, and it was only fitting that I should be the one to do it. Although the reader may readily understand that I was not at all eager to claim relationship to the brute.

So I concealed my fury with a smile, and said: "My dear fellow, why didn't you say so? And you need an expert to assassinate the traitor! I'm your man...bing, bang, bing...and all for jolly old England, what?

"Wrong." Hogan was uncompromising. "I want you to take his place and carry out his mission."

"Most irregular," I said, and I meant it, by Jove! I eyed Hogan with a touch of suspicion, and demanded to be told just what this mission was.

When Hogan admitted he didn't know, I quite lost my temper, and stated I would have nothing to do with this foolishness.

He listened to me quietly, and nodded. "Crittendon, you may be right."

"Really?" Never did I think I should hear those words from Hogan, but a first time for anything, what?

"Afraid so," he said. "This thing requires acting ability; it's asking too much of you."

"But if you'd only give me some sort of..." I said querulously, but then his words suddenly sank in. "Acting?" When he put it like that, well, it certainly put me on my mettle. The honour of the Crittendons was at stake, as well as the Woosters!

And so, to demonstrate my thespian skill, I struck a pose and declaimed: "The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth like the dreadful...uh, gentle...uh..."

"Crittendon, forget it, we'll get someone else. It's nothing personal."

But then I remembered that I outranked Hogan, and I reminded him of this fact. He seemed much struck by this, and agreed to allow me to assume the rôle of Sir Charles Chitterly. However, he had another concern. "One thing, Crittendon. Sir Charles talks just like Elmer Fudd."

"Elmer Fudd?" I was not acquainted with this Fudd fellow, but if Hogan was referring to a seeming inability to pronounce the letter R, I was well aware of this. Charles, in my opinion, deliberately cultivated this affectation; he could easily have remedied the situation by consulting with that chap who assisted our good King George VI with his speech difficulties.

"Elmer Fudd is a cartoon character I saw at the movies while I was stationed in London," said Hogan. "He can't pronounce the letter R - talks about 'wacky wabbits' all the time. Think you can do that?"

I drew myself up. "My dear sir, normally I would not so demean myself, but anything for King and country!"

...

Hogan's plan was for young Carter to impersonate General von Schlomm, who was expected at the stalag in the morning. If, while posing as the General, he could get Charles to divulge his purpose in coming to Germany, all well and good. If he were unsuccessful, then I would be obliged to step in and assume Charles's identity.

And of course I was prepared to do this, revolting though the prospect was. Most unfortunately, however, when young Carter tried to get my cousin to talk about his mission, Charles did not cooperate in the least. Hogan was forced to make him a prisoner in the tunnels, and I took Charles's place in Klink's quarters.

I had just snuggled into Klink's bed in the nick of time; Klink himself returned with the real General von Schlomm, and the two of them peeked in on me as I feigned sleep.

As they stood at my bedside, Klink and the General arranged that von Schlomm would be spending the night on Klink's sofa in the outer room. And then von Schlomm said something that chilled me to my very marrow!

When Klink asked him what time he would be leaving for Berlin in the morning, von Schlomm replied, "As soon as Sir Charles' wife gets here."

Well, bit of a facer, what? I had heard a few years ago that some deluded female had agreed to marry Charles, but I had assumed (erroneously, it now appeared) that she had come to her senses after a time and handed him the mitten. More fool she for not having done so! And now she was to come here, expecting to see the real Charles?

I waited until the General was sleeping in the parlour before I tiptoed out of Klink's bedroom and made my way to the tunnel entrance hidden beneath the parlour stove. I eased the stove to one side, and descended into the tunnel.

I hurried to find Hogan and report my finding to him. He told me that I must continue my masquerade regardless, since London was extremely anxious to stop whatever it was that Charles was up to. And Charles's wife undoubtedly was aware of his nefarious plans, having spent the last three months in Berlin.

Hogan was of the opinion that the lady might be willing to disclose Charles's plans to me, once I (as he put it) "took her into my strong arms".

Naturally, this sort of thing is not at all in accordance with the correct behaviour of an officer and a gentleman, and I was about to refuse outright. But then young Carter showed me a photo of Lady Chitterly, purloined from Charles's wallet, and I must admit the lady was quite comely, indeed. Not that this circumstance had any effect on my decision, it should be understood.

I said to Hogan, "I suppose it _is_ all in the line of duty, what?"

And of course, as I believe I may have mentioned once or twice, I always strive to do my duty.

...

The next morning, after General von Schlomm left Klink's quarters, Hogan came to offer me moral support for my impending encounter with Lady Chitterly. I attempted to decline his services, but he insisted on staying, just in case the lady didn't believe I was Charles after all.

Our discussion was soon interrupted by sounds without. We could hear the voices of Klink and von Schlomm in the parlour, and a light, feminine voice was heard as well.

"Oh, thank you, General, I think that will be all."

"As you wish, Lady Chitterly."

Hogan promptly hid in the bedroom closet, and I adjusted my cravat nervously, waiting for developments. A tapping at the door ensued, and a smiling woman came in, closing the door behind her.

"Charles!" she said, and I reached out to enfold her in the old embrace, don't you know.

I really cannot fault Lady Chitterly for her subsequent homicidal impulse, since I had experienced much the same thing when I discovered Charles's perfidy. However, since her impulse was unfortunately directed at me instead of my loathsome cousin, I could only be glad that Hogan leapt from the closet in time to stay her hand...which was clutching a ruddy sharp dagger.

As soon as Hogan determined that she had attacked me because she thought I was indeed Charles (and not because she was desirous of exterminating Charles's impostor), he demanded: "Why were you trying to kill him?"

"Because he's is a filthy traitor!" she cried, eyes flashing. "Sir Charles wants England to surrender; he's here to take back Hitler's terms."

Hogan protested that England would never agree to this, but he did say that this action could definitely create trouble. After he obtained Lady Chitterly's agreement to cooperate with him, he told us he had work to do, and after peering out of the door to make sure the coast was clear, he left the bedroom. Much to my dismay, I might add.

I gulped a trifle as I looked at the lady. Her expression was quite intense as she stroked her dagger, rather like one of the more bloodthirsty females of whom Shakespeare had written. Lady Macbeth, perhaps. Or one of King Lear's daughters.

But of course my favourite Shakespearean play has always been _The Merchant of Venice. _I am fond of quoting from it, but there is always that one blasted line that gives me difficulties, as had happened earlier with Hogan and his men. As I stood there in Klink's bedroom with Lady Chitterly, I pondered that line once more...now, how did it go? The quality of mercy is not strained...

_"Charles!"_

I jumped as my ruminations were interrupted, and looked rather apprehensively at Lady Chitterly...the homicidal glint was once more in her eye.

"Oh, excuse me, Lady Chitterly..." I began, but she cut me off with a gesture of that bally dagger.

"Call me Leslie," she ordered. "I prefer not to hear the name 'Lady Chitterly' any more than I must. And I do apologise for addressing you as Charles, Colonel Crittendon. But it's for the best, isn't it, since you will be playing the part of my husband, I presume."

"Of course, Lady Chit...I mean, Leslie. And it's Group Captain, actually."

She paid no heed to this, and gave me a brooding sort of look. "Colonel Hogan seems to think he'll be able to deal with this terrible mess Charles has created. Will he?"

"Well, Hogan does have some remarkable ideas..."

"In this situation, remarkable ideas will not be good enough; I shall have to take a hand in this if we are to bring it off."

I eyed her in some alarm; the resemblance to Lady Macbeth was more evident than ever.

...

And take a hand she did, by Jove! The next morning in Klink's office, Lady Chitterly greeted Hogan effusively - flung her arms about his neck and kissed him, after saying something or other about "that mad, mad summer" she and Hogan and Charles had shared some years previously.

The adjective "mad" seemed to describe her current behaviour, in my opinion, but Hogan played along without turning a hair. One would think he was enjoying the performance. Indeed, one might think that he had actually had a previous intimate acquaintance with Lady Chitterly! Shocking!

I, on the other hand, stood by in acute discomfort, wishing myself anywhere but there. I never dreamed that I should be playing the part of a cuckold, but there it was. Lady Chitterly had the bit between her teeth, and there was no way of knowing just what would be the result of her actions. And there wasn't a thing I - or Hogan - could do about it.

With the most pleasantly imperious manner possible, she instructed von Schlomm to disregard Hitler's orders to bring the Chitterlys to Berlin, just so she could renew her supposed acquaintance with Hogan for a few days! This of course caused no little consternation on the part of General von Schlomm, who had planned on carrying us off to Berlin within the hour. But he could do nothing in the face of her supreme self-possession.

I had my share of consternation too...my duty was turning out to be not quite what I had anticipated. The figure I was cutting was hardly a romantic one, watching my supposed wife behave in such an excessively affectionate manner toward another man! But I was determined to carry out the task that had been assigned to me.

As I remarked sadly to the understandably befuddled von Schlomm: "Rather a dull few days for me, what?"

...

Since von Schlomm had come for the express purpose of escorting Sir Charles and Lady Chitterly to Berlin, the problem, it seemed to me, was to get Lady Chitterly and her husband back to England posthaste, before this all-important meeting with _der Führer _could take place. Especially as I was standing in for Sir Charles! I must confess that the ultimate fate of Charles himself concerned me not at all; I was only anxious that he be placed in a position where he could no longer do any harm to the Allied cause.

But how could we do this, without raising a hue and cry over the disappearance of the Chitterlys? I confess I hadn't the least notion how this was to be achieved. And I feared that Hogan was equally in the dark.

The situation culminated with a visit from the Gestapo. Unfortunately Charles had managed to escape from the tunnels just long enough to contact Colonel Klink and complain of his kidnapping, and Klink had promptly called in the Gestapo to investigate it.

By the time the Gestapo officer arrived, Charles had been recaptured and was safely back in the tunnels, and I had resumed my rôle as his impostor. I rather nervously waited in the parlour as I heard voices outside..the officer had a raucous voice, and he was in the process of berating Klink as they entered Klink's quarters, along with General von Schlomm.

To my surprise, the Gestapo officer was a familiar figure...Major Hochstetter! As I recalled from an earlier adventure, he was an Allied agent...wasn't he? At any rate, he gave no sign of having met me before. Or perhaps I was unrecognizable as Rodney Crittendon, RAF, under the guise of Sir Charles Chitterly, Traitor.

Hochstetter made it clear that he didn't believe Klink's claim of Charles's kidnapping, especially since I denied all knowledge of it. And at that moment, Hogan and Lady Chitterly emerged from Klink's kitchen, bearing champagne.

Hogan's arrival on the scene appeared to exacerbate the Major's none too amiable temper; he greeted Hogan with an irate "WHAT IS THIS MAN DOING HERE!", and he seemed much aggrieved with von Schlomm's reply that Hogan was a friend of the Chitterlys. I believe the phrase "most dangerous man in all Germany" was used, and for a moment I thought perhaps Hochstetter and von Schlomm would come to blows.

And then the phone rang.

The Major picked it up. It was Hitler, wanting to speak with _me!_

Ghastly! Ghastly! I knew not where to turn, but Lady Chitterly was more than equal to the occasion, and promptly went into action once more. She handed the champagne glasses to a surprised Klink, and moved purposefully toward the phone.

She took the receiver from Hochstetter, and her voice was sweetly reasonable as she enquired, "Is that you, Dolf?"

From the corner of my eye I could see Hogan, and I wondered if I had the same expression of slack-jawed amazement on my face as he had on his. We watched as Lady Chitterly exchanged pleasantries with _der Führer_.

Most extraordinary, indeed...I hadn't realised the fellow spoke English!

She said smoothly into the phone, "No, we're not coming to Berlin...no time; the minute Charles is discovered missing all our crowd will be under house arrest. I take it von Schlomm has the surrender terms? Good."

And then the smile vanished from her face, the cooing voice abruptly hardened, and the homicidal glint was back in her eye. "One small change of plan. Send every man-of-war you have, along with some troops, sailing toward England. At once."

She went on to explain that the show of an invasion force was necessary to compel England to surrender...and I knew that Hitler would soon rue the day he had ever met Lady Chitterly.

...

As soon as Hochstetter, von Schlomm and Klink left Klink's quarters, Lady Chitterly, Hogan and I repaired to the tunnels, emerging eventually in Barracks 2. There Hogan and his men readied Lady Chitterly and myself for the trip to England.

As Hogan handed me a Luger and Newkirk fitted Lady Chitterly out with a work shirt and trousers, Baker came bursting into Hogan's quarters with news. The invasion fleet was in the Channel, just as Lady Chitterly had directed Hitler, and Allied bombers were about to destroy it.

"Ripping!" I said, delighted. "We actually pulled it off!" I turned to Lady Chitterly courteously. "All due to you, of course."

The lady graciously returned the compliment, but we all knew that she, and she alone, had managed to carry out this remarkable scheme.

* * *

Emily put down the manuscript and fixed me with a stern eye. "Now, about this Lady Chitterly," she began, and then spoiled the effect as she fell about laughing.

I was unable to perceive the humour in her statement. "My dear girl..."

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, darling. But the thought of poor Bob standing there, not knowing what this woman was going to say next...it's priceless!" She sobered a bit then, and added, "At least, it would have been if the situation hadn't been so serious. But you must admit that there's a strange sort of satisfaction in seeing Colonel Hogan caught up in someone else's wild scheme for a change."

She was quite right, of course, but I said only, "I must say I was jolly glad to have Lady Chitterly take over in the way she did. I hadn't the foggiest notion of what to say to that Hitler fellow!"

"Well, I'm glad she was there...I can't imagine what you could have said to him either." Emily looked down at the manuscript, and added in a casual, off-hand sort of way: "So what happened between the two of you on the way to England?"

I was instantly alarmed. "Nothing happened, on my honour as an officer and as a Crittendon!"

"Hmm."

"Emily, my dear..."

She smiled and patted my hand. "Oh, Rodney, of course you were a perfect gentleman on that journey back to England! I know better than anyone else what kind of man you are, don't I?"

I returned her smile, relieved. "You do, indeed. For, 'I am married to a wife, which is as dear to me as life itself.' "

"See, Rodney dear? You can recite Shakespeare with the best of them." She gave me a mischievous glance. "But weren't you just a _teeny_ bit tempted? Since Lady Chitterly was such an attractive woman, and all."

"Most awfully good-looking," I said. "But rather too unpredictable for my taste; to be perfectly honest, she frightened me to death! Besides..."

Emily smiled and shook her head. "Don't tell me. Colonel Hogan ended up with the girl yet again?"

"Well, yes," I admitted. "He did."

She looked at the last page of the manuscript again, and then back up at me, entirely serious now. "What happened once you reached England?"

"Lady Chitterly was taken at once to Allied Headquarters in London for questioning, and I never saw her after that. I believe she was interned for the duration of the war, and went to Australia after the war ended, or so I was told. Pity, actually."

Emily nodded thoughtfully. "And your cousin Charles?"

I sighed. "Hogan released him into the compound, and because the invasion fleet was sunk, Hochstetter arrested him. Somehow, though, he managed to return to England, and was promptly taken into custody. He is now being detained at His Majesty's pleasure in a prison somewhere in Northumberland."

My wife said firmly, "Serves him right. It makes my blood boil, to think of all of you risking your lives to save England from that monster Hitler, and there was Charles, coolly planning to arrange a surrender!"

"Frightfully bad form," I agreed. "But a good show, indeed, that most of us were prepared to fight for dear old Blighty. Even the chaps in the POW camps never gave up: Hogan especially! Why, even after the landings in Normandy, he and his men were still hard at it. And I had the privilege of working with them one last time..."


	8. The final mission

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

Crittendon's version of "Crittendon's Commandos". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

* * *

There I was in London, tied to a desk once more, and fretting about my relative safety whilst so many other chaps remained in harm's way. The Allies had finally landed in Normandy and our gallant lads were slogging through the hedgerows of France, and I longed to be part of it all. I'm afraid I made rather a nuisance of myself with my commanding officer, trying for active duty.

Old Emsworth eyed me rather askance, don't you know, and enquired in a sarcastic tone how I felt I might be of use. He added, "To a man, your superiors have described you as a very correct British officer. However, as one of them put it, you are effective on the parade ground, and totally incompetent in every other field of endeavour. After a meteoric rise to Group Captain, you have remained in grade ever since. Thirteen or fourteen years now, isn't it?"

"That is quite true, sir," I admitted. "But..."

Emsworth growled, "Getting captured by the Germans appears to be your most notable skill."

As a point of fact, I believe I held the record for the most escapes (and the most times recaptured) by an Allied prisoner of war. This did not seem to be a statistic that was wholly impressive to Emsworth, however.

"Sir," I said, "That circumstance has rendered me quite familiar with the German countryside, and..."

"And with German POW camps," the old gentleman said, half to himself. "Including Stalag 13."

"Why, yes," I said, with a doubtful glance at him. "I have had the honour of visiting Stalag 13 several times."

"Good enough," said Emsworth. "Wembley over at SOE has a special project in mind. I'll have you talk with him..._if_ you're serious about going back into action."

"Entirely, sir," I said.

...

Colonel Wembley was rather excited to see me at first, until he realised that I wasn't the Crittendon he had expected.

"Oh, it's you, Crittendon. I thought perhaps they would be sending us your brother! Colonel Crittendon has such _marvellous_ ideas," he lamented. "I had quite hoped he had managed to escape from the Jerries this time."

"I fear he is still at Stalag 2, Colonel," I said.

Wembley sighed, and then gave me a speculative look. "But you've been a prisoner of war, as well."

"Quite frequently, old boy," I agreed.

"And you know Stalag 13," he mused.

"Like the back of my hand," I assured him. "But..."

"You could lead a team of men there if you parachuted into the vicinity?"

"Most definitely," I said. "But...Colonel Wembley, my previous experiences at Stalag 13 were not entirely felicitous. Colonel Hogan may not appreciate..."

"Nonsense, Crittendon! Didn't you and he collaborate successfully during your last venture there?"

"Well, it did turn out rather well in the end..."

"And didn't he specifically request your assistance for that mission?"

"It was a request I could scarcely refuse," I said a trifle grimly, as I recalled being marched from Stalag 12 at gunpoint.

"Well, there you are, then! I'm quite sure he will be delighted to see you again."

I was not convinced of this, but I decided further resistance was futile. "You mentioned a team of men, Colonel. And you wish me to take them to Stalag 13?"

He sighed. "This idea is a long shot, I must tell you. Suicide mission, as it were. And our best commandos are committed to Monty's scheme for the Netherlands, I'm afraid. But if we can pull this off with the team we have available..."

A daunting prospect, indeed. But I reminded myself that whenever duty called, I responded without hesitation, by Jove! So I said, "You may count on me. But what are the particulars of the mission?"

"The head of Naval Intelligence has been captured," Wembley said abruptly. "We want to get him back, and it has been proposed that we force a prisoner exchange."

I blinked. "We must have a jolly high-ranking Jerry in one of our camps then, I should think."

"No, that's the problem; we don't. But there's a chance, a very slight chance, that a team of commandos might succeed in capturing one: Field Marshal Rommel was injured in a strafing attack in France and is presently recuperating in a small hospital outside of Hammelburg." He hesitated. "The team of commandos we have in mind for this mission is not from the top drawer, to be quite frank. In fact, that American chap Garrison rejected them. So did that other American chap Reisman. But I must say this group is very keen indeed."

"There you have it!" I said. "Crittendon's Commandos will succeed on heart alone; we shall not discriminate on the basis of race, creed, class, skill or intellect."

"Jolly good! Here's the plan, then."

...

I presented myself at one of His Majesty's prisons to collect my team, and I must confess I was rather appalled at first by their appearance. They were a rough-looking lot, to be sure, and absolutely lacking in discipline, as one might expect. But to a man they assured me they were behind this project; they were determined to see that Jerry got one in the eye, no matter what it took.

As Tobin said, "I might 'ave a few turn-ups with the bobbies from time to time, but no-one drops bombs on England and gets away with it!"

"We're all behind Winnie, guv'nor," Digby added.

"Jolly good," I said.

They had been given a brief instruction in map-reading and hand-to-hand combat techniques, but otherwise were regrettably untutored. And there was some discussion over the issue of uniforms; SOE was rather reluctant to provide any, as none of my men were actually members of the military, but after Hogan notified SOE that he wanted the team to be wearing flight uniforms as worn by RAF airmen, these were supplied.

Good old Hogan! No doubt he was as cognisant as I of Hitler's Commando Order, and was providing for my men in case of capture. In that highly undesirable instance, it would be critical that they be regarded as downed fliers who would be treated humanely (more or less) as POWs, rather than as paratroopers (or even worse, spies) and subject to execution under the Order.

So the reader might well imagine my dismay when, after my team and I parachuted safely into Germany, Hogan and his men appeared at rendezvous point Area A-11 kitted out in Luftwaffe uniform! The terrible risk they were running...if Jerry discovered what they were about, surely they would all be shot!

I remembered how blithely they had ignored that danger during an earlier adventure, when I had had the honour to assist Hogan and young Carter with the demolition of that Jerry convoy and tunnel. I had been correctly attired in RAF uniform, but Carter and Hogan had been masquerading as _Heer_ officers. And here they were again, in precisely the same situation!

I could not reconcile it with my conscience to endanger Hogan and his men any more than they were already, so I politely but firmly declined Hogan's offer of transport to Stalag 13, saying, "Ah, now I have a much safer idea. You and your men ride in the lorry, my boys and I will follow on foot."

Hogan stared at me and protested, "It's ten miles!"

I hastened to reassure him. "Oho, merely a pleasant stroll for us. You see, if we rode in the lorry with you, wouldn't that be putting all our eggs in one basket, what?"

Hogan, noble chap that he is, resisted my suggestion. I had to pull rank on him, don't you know, to get him to agree. He grumbled, but eventually he and his team got in their lorry and they set off toward the camp.

I led my own team through the woods, and we were making jolly good progress until we found ourselves surrounded by a company of SS. Rather an unpleasant situation, to be sure: all of them were heavily armed, and they appeared most displeased to find us in their vicinity. A quick glance at my men and I knew they were about to do something foolish; perhaps even try to shoot it out with these fellows!

Wilkins said in a low voice, "You scarper now, guv'nor. We'll 'old 'em off as long as we can."

"They'll never take us alive," vowed Tobin, and Digby nodded agreement.

Well, I couldn't have that, could I? I would not allow my men to throw their lives away like that, by Jove! So I did the only sensible thing.

"Cast aside your weapons, men," I said. "There is obviously no chance of escape, and to attempt to fight these chaps would be suicidal. Remember, you are all supposed to be British airmen. Name, rank, and serial number only...your survival depends on it."

Grumbling, they obeyed, and we all got to our feet, hands raised in the air.

_"Kamerad!" _I called out, as I had so many times before, but never before with such a bitter feeling of defeat.

...

I spoke for our group to the SS company commander, stating that we had parachuted from a stricken bomber. And where was the bomber, he wanted to know. I told him that perhaps the pilot had been able to limp home after all. The commander listened to my story and looked me up and down, and made a comment to an underling about the general inefficiency of the English military man.

And I had the strangest impression that he considered me a prime example.

At any rate, my men were loaded into the back of a lorry, and the SS men conferred among themselves. Finally the commander nodded and strode off in the direction of a staff car. The lorry driver climbed in the front of the vehicle, and two of the SS officers climbed in the back without giving me a second glance.

And then the ruddy lorry took off, leaving me behind! Most extraordinary, indeed. I am not the sort of officer to abandon my men, so I ran after the blasted thing. My men frantically tried to wave me off, shaking their heads and making shooing-away motions, and I could see Tobin slapping his hand to his forehead in apparent exasperation.

But the SS men took no notice of this, or of my frantic pursuit. I finally had to stop for breath, my chest heaving as I watched them disappear round the next curve in the road.

My shoulders sagged in defeat as I trudged my way to Stalag 13, arriving sometime in the wee hours of the morning. It was so dark I was completely unable to locate the tree stump exit that I had last used when I escorted Lady Chitterly back to England. I hadn't the least notion of how to contact Hogan, and I realised belatedly that this was something else I should have anticipated.

Feeling a bit desperate, I continued to scout the woods, falling over bushes and whatnot in the dark, until I ran into a very strange object that was moving up and down through a hole in the ground.

By Jove! It was a periscope, no doubt constructed by the clever lads under Hogan's command. I tapped on it, tried to talk into it, and shook it, to no avail. Finally I grasped it, and with a mighty heave hauled it upward.

Well, that got a response. In short order Sergeant Kinchloe appeared out of the darkness. "It's you!" he blurted.

"Yes," I said sadly.

"But where are the others?"

I shook my head. "Just take me to Hogan, if you will, Sergeant."

...

When I explained the events of the evening, Colonel Hogan (to his everlasting credit) did _not_ say "I told you so."

Instead, he said gravely, "It's a good thing you didn't try to fight your way out of this one."

I found myself unable to hold his gaze. "I surrendered. And the look I saw on the faces of my command...I'll remember until my dying day. I failed them, Hogan, I failed them."

He cleared his throat. "You saved the lives of your men, Colonel."

I hadn't the heart to correct his use of that blasted title; I said only, "I'd rather you didn't call me that. I'm a disgrace to this uniform. A vital mission has been ruined because I had to do things my way."

Hogan and his men did their utmost to make me feel better about the evening's fiasco, which I could not help but appreciate. However, there was something far more important to address than my personal failure. So when Sergeant Kinchloe emerged from the bunk tunnel with the message that he had established radio contact with London, I stiffened my spine and prepared to do what needed to be done.

"Good," I told him. "They must be informed that a vital mission has been botched."

As I headed for the bunk entrance, Hogan gave me a quick glance, then turned to the Sergeant. "Ah...hold it a minute, Kinch."

I said impatiently, "Time is of the essence, Hogan. They might just be able to fly in a second unit to pull it off!"

Hogan held up a hand. "You have all the details of the mission?"

I said, "Of course. The hospital is just outside Hammelburg; Rommel is in suite 101. I'm to deliver him tomorrow night at midnight to the underground."

Kinchloe asked, "They'll keep him?"

I shook my head. "No, they'll take him to the coast. We have a sub standing by."

A slow smile appeared on Hogan's face. "Then all you need are some expert fighting men to handle the guards, hmm?"

"And they aren't easy to find," I sighed.

To my amazement, Hogan and his crew all voiced a willingness to take the place of the men I had lost. I had to swallow a ruddy lump in my throat before I could respond: "This mission might be a sticky one."

One and all, they assured me that they were ready for the task. As Sergeant Kinchloe commented,"We'd just be sitting around, anyway."

I flushed with gratification. "Fine lads! Hogan, I'll need your lorry again."

Hogan agreed, but said, "I just have one question, Colonel. Why is it we're supposed to grab Rommel?"

I explained the idea of the prisoner exchange, and Corporal Newkirk nodded. "That'd be quite a coup, if we could pull it off."

But I knew with Hogan and his lads on the job, there was no doubt that we should succeed.

...

And the actual caper went better than I could have imagined. At least, it did at first.

Hogan's men managed to steal the lorry from the motor pool the following evening, and shortly five of us were gathered outside the small private hospital. We were _all_ attired in Luftwaffe uniform this time; I was garbed with the overcoat of a Jerry sergeant over my RAF uniform, with the matching helmet of course.

I explained the layout of the hospital, and I overrode Hogan's suggestion that Corporal Newkirk be the one to descend into the basement to cut the power. I had the entire layout of the hospital committed to memory, don't you know, and I was determined to perform the task myself.

"That diagram is tucked away right in the old brain-box," I assured Hogan. "Control system, south wall of basement, metal box, three switches. Left switch - escape alarm, middle switch - air raid siren, right switch - main power. Follow me, lads."

I led the other four into the hospital and we paused in the hallway outside a door.

"That's the doctor's lounge," I said. "It's unoccupied right now, so we'll go in. The light switch is on the wall, to the right." I opened the door, and indeed, everything was just as I said!

I sensed the lads were somewhat surprised at this, especially as young Carter exclaimed: "Well, I'll be darned. It _is_ a doctor's lounge!"

I checked the window and came back to the group. "Now, the guards won't be making their rounds for another twenty minutes. That gives us plenty of time for our bit of work. Rommel is in Suite 101, down the hall, corridor on your left, third door to your right."

Hogan nodded. "Very good, very good."

I said, "Now, here's the ploy. After I leave, wait 25 seconds, then get cracking. I'll give you five seconds to get to the hall, then I'll hit the lights. Rommel should be asleep; just to make sure..." I paused to pull a syringe out of my pocket "...this syringe contains a powerful sedative. It works instantly; use it if you have to."

Hogan tried once more: "Ah, Crittendon...wouldn't you rather Newkirk go?"

I shook my head. "An officer never sends a man to do a job he wouldn't do himself. There must be no slip-ups." I patted Hogan reassuringly on the shoulder. "Good luck, chaps."

I hurried down the nearby stairwell, and at once found the bank of switches I was seeking. I flipped the left switch, and then, seized by a horrid suspicion that I had chosen the wrong one, flipped the middle switch as well, and turned to climb the stairs again.

Disaster! All at once I heard an air raid siren, and a light in the stairwell began to flash red. I rushed up the stairs and through the door, where I promptly encountered Colonel Hogan. He had exchanged his Luftwaffe uniform for a surgeon's gown: not part of the plan, of course, but that scarcely mattered at the moment. In the tumult of sirens wailing and lights flashing and people rushing about, the scheme had to be abandoned, and at once.

"Hogan!" I said. "Rotten luck, eh? Fine time they pick to have an escape and an air raid at the same time! Follow me!"

Hogan said grimly, pointing in the opposite direction: "Rommel's room is _this_ way."

His dedication to the cause was most admirable, of course, but I could think of nothing but the danger in which I had placed Hogan and his men. They were only there because I had surrendered my men; they did not deserve to suffer the capture, probable torture, and execution which would surely be their fate if they remained here.

So I quite lost my head. "To blazes with Rommel!" I cried. "We've got to get out of here!"

And then, to my everlasting shame, I must have fainted, for I remember only a stabbing pain in my arm, and then darkness.

...

When I came to, my immediate sensation was one of acute nausea. There was darkness, a bouncing motion, and a faint moaning to my immediate left. I was lying inside a frightfully small compartment, not big enough to stand in, and scarcely long enough to accommodate me and whoever else shared the space with me. A lorry, no doubt, but it was certainly not the same lorry we had taken to the hospital. I lay still for a moment, wondering where this vehicle was carrying us.

Eventually we came to a stop, and the rear doors of the vehicle opened. With a rush of relief I recognised Kurt, the member of the underground who had assisted me twice before. He indicated that he was going to locate the fellow who would be rowing us to the sub, and then he disappeared from view.

The fresh breeze blowing in had the tang of salt air, and I drew a deep, thankful breath. So the scheme had come off after all! I turned to my companion in the back of the lorry. "Field Marshal Rommel, I regret to inform you that..."

"Hold your tongue, sir. Just whom do you think you are addressing?" The old gentleman on the stretcher opened his eyes and gave me the old once-over. He was apparently not the Desert Fox, after all!

A wave of horror swept over me. We had kidnapped the wrong man! How could I have made such an error?

With a feeling of impending doom, I asked the fellow, "Might one enquire who you are, then?"

"Admiral Thomas Todley, His Majesty's Royal Navy," was the irritable reply. "Who are _you?"_

I came to attention as best I could, struggling to a sitting position on the floor of the lorry. I snapped off a brisk salute and said, "Colonel - oh, no, not Colonel, dash it! - Group Captain Rodney Crittendon, His Majesty's Royal Air Force, sir!"

"Crittendon, eh?" It was too dark in the compartment to assess the Admiral's expression, but from the tone of his voice, I suspected my name was not unknown to him. And not in a good way, I might add.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around. "We're at the coast, it would appear. Do I have you to thank for my deliverance from that Jerry hospital?"

"Not precisely, sir," I said, honesty ever being one of my few virtues. "I was there at the hospital with some comrades, and I pointed out what I thought was Rommel's room to them. I fear I have no recollection of what occurred after that. But Colonel Hogan must have realised you were there, and kidnapped _you_ instead."

He blinked a few times. "You called me Rommel...you thought _I_ was Rommel?"

I hung my head in shame. "Yes, sir. For it was he we had planned to kidnap. We wanted to force an exchange for you, you see."

He nodded. "So Rommel was at the hospital too. I wondered why they moved me to that room yesterday. Probably had a more palatial suite for the Field Marshal prepared, and so they moved him out, and moved me in."

I brightened up a bit at that. "So I had the proper room, after all?"

"I believe so, Crittendon."

"Oh, I say, sir, what a bit of serendup...serendop...oh, dash it..."

"The word is serendipity, Crittendon. And yes, I would agree."

...

Upon arrival in Southampton, I escorted Admiral Todley to Netley Hospital, where they could check him over thoroughly. Quite an efficient place, don't you know, full of starchy nurses and whatnot. The particular nurse who took charge of the Admiral was very starchy indeed, and she obviously terrified the poor chap. Once she had him comfortable in a cot, with his leg upon a pillow, she drew me outside the room.

Then she smiled at me. By Jove, she was a veritable goddess! Dimples, you know, and hair like a raven's wing, and eyes the colour of toffee...this weary soldier lost his heart, at once and forever.

Her voice, despite a deplorable Yank accent, was like the fluting notes of a nightingale. "You are Colonel Crittendon?" Then she looked at the insignia on my tunic and frowned. "But that can't be right...you're with the RAF; you must be a Group Captain."

Well, I say, who would not have loved a girl like that? "Miss..." I began.

"Captain, actually," she said. "United States Army Nurse Corps. But you can call me Emily."

...

I reported to G2 immediately regarding the Todley adventure, and Colonel Wembley allowed me to radio Colonel Hogan about the unexpected development.

"I understand we shipped the wrong package," Hogan said, once contact had been established.

"Not at all!" I replied. "There we were, trying to take Rommel, and who did we kidnap but Admiral Todley himself! That wasn't the plan, you know."

"I know."

I commended Hogan on the fine work he and his men had done, and I was about to bring up another subject, but the radio signal was lost. Frightfully aggravating, losing our connection like that! But we Crittendons do not give up easily, and I haunted SOE headquarters until communication with Stalag 13 was re-established.

"Colonel Hogan!" I said. "At last!"

"Yeah, it's me, Crittendon. Thanks for letting us know about that package you delivered...don't know how we got cut off last time."

"Think nothing of it, old boy," I said. "Ruddy wonderful how things turned out, isn't it? But, my dear fellow, I must speak with you about something else entirely, something quite important indeed."

There was an audible sigh. "Go ahead, Crittendon."

I squared my shoulders and cleared my throat. "Colonel Hogan," I said formally, "I should like to respectfully ask your permission to pay my addresses to a certain young lady."

_"What?_ Why the hell are you asking _me?"_

"I believe you are in the position to act _in loco parentis_ for the young lady in question: she has the honour to be Captain Emily Hogan, of the United States Army Nurse Corps."

There was a burst of static, don't you know, and then I was able to hear Colonel Hogan's voice again. Quite a remarkable command of Anglo-Saxon oaths he had, indeed. I believe he tossed in a few French and German ones as well, once he had run the gamut of English profanity.

Eventually he wound down, and there was a brief silence. Finally he spoke, this time with a note of resignation. "Oh, hell, why not? My sister's thirty-two; she's old enough to figure things out for herself. Go ahead, give it your best shot. But you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

...

Hogan's reservations aside, I knew quite well what I was about; and happy indeed was the day Emily became my bride. It would have been an idyllic time, had it not been for the war, and the concern we had for our respective brothers. As Nigel and Hogan were still being held at POW camps in Germany, it is no wonder we were anxious. But at least Emily and I had each other during that trying period.

Those were long, weary months indeed. My sister Kay stopped receiving letters from Nigel in December of '44, and at about the same time, Emily's parents in the States reported that letters from her brother had stopped coming. And I myself had no further contact with Hogan, although I returned to SOE headquarters again and again during those months in an attempt to obtain news of him.

I didn't reveal to Emily that I had been trying to reach her brother. Due to the highly classified nature of Hogan's operation, she knew only that I had encountered him once or twice when I had been a POW at Stalag 13. And it pained me to watch her grow paler and quieter by the day, with no word from him. But we carried on; Emily continued her service at Netley Hospital, for the number of returning sick and injured soldiers was growing as the Allied armies marched into Germany and the POW camps were liberated. And I was reassigned by the War Office to administrative duty, to help these young men return to civilian life.

And we waited.

In April of '45, the long months of uncertainty ended for us, with the receipt of two telegrams. The first was most welcome: a brief message let us know that Hogan had survived and was now free, but very little else.

The second one was delivered to my sister Kay at her home just outside London. Alas, my brother Nigel would never return home; he had perished during a forced march from Stalag 2 to Moosburg, and England is forever poorer for his loss. A grievous blow indeed, but having Emily at my side was an inestimable comfort to me.

Then, one warm day in June, the doorbell of our Southampton flat rang. And there Hogan stood; thinner, greyer, but with the familiar quirky grin firmly in place.

Emily took one look at him and burst into tears. And as Hogan took her in his arms, I must confess that I shed a few myself! But we gathered our wits enough to welcome him inside, and ply him with tea and crumpets.

In between bites of crumpet, Hogan informed us that he was only going to be in London on a brief leave, as he would be returning to Germany shortly.

"A few loose ends to tie up. And I have a report to prepare," he said grimly. "Things are very bad in Germany, and they're going to get worse." He brooded on this for a time, and then looked up at me. "So what are you doing now, Crittendon?"

"Soldiers' welfare and demobilisation services," I replied.

"What's your plan after that?"

"I hadn't really thought that far ahead, old boy."

"Well, think about it," he advised. "That is, if you plan on supporting my sister in the style to which she is accustomed."

Emily gave him a warning look. "Bob...keep it up, and we won't name any of our kids after you."

I intervened quickly. "I do have a Cambridge degree, you know, although admittedly not a first-class one. Somehow I managed to squeak it out before the war, during all those years I spent in grade as Group Captain."

"Then why don't you put it to use?" Hogan suggested. "Start teaching kids about the things that made England great. Tell them about the spirit that never, ever gave in to the Nazi threat. Help them to develop the same sense of honour that _you've_ got."

Emily said gently, "It's an idea, Rodney dear. Think about where you first learned that you, too, could contribute to England's glory. Remember old Chips?"

...

I took their words to heart, and I decided to follow in Mr Chipping's footsteps. I am now Latin master at dear old Brookfield School, and I have found the post to be most congenial indeed. Emily runs the school infirmary with a firm yet loving hand, and the schoolboys all adore her, as do our two sons, of course. Young Nigel and Bobby are not yet of an age to attend school, but they will take their places at Brookfield when the time comes.

And yes, the lads at school refer to me as "old Crit". They fondly believe that I am unaware of this, but in truth I consider the appellation to be an honour; second only, perhaps, to the honour of serving England during the time of her greatest need, and her finest hour.

* * *

When Emily put down the manuscript, she had tears in her eyes. "Rodney dear, do you remember why I asked you to write your memoirs?"

I had to think about that for a bit. "Because you thought I needed to get it out of my system."

"Yes, but I had another reason. Rodney, I wanted to you to see yourself as _I_ see you."

I took her hand in mine, and asked, a little wistfully, "How _do_ you see me, old girl?"

She smiled. "As a man who is sometimes foolish, sometimes wise, sometimes too quick to act; but always, _always_ conscious of your duty, and willing to do your part. And through it all, your kind heart and optimistic spirit just shine. Rodney dear, are you beginning to understand why I am so proud of you?"

It took me a moment or two to find my voice. "Thank you, my dear."

Was there ever a man as fortunate as I? And as I looked down at the manuscript it struck me: perhaps my memories of Stalag 13 weren't so very bad after all!


End file.
